Forgive Me
by maleV
Summary: Piers nivans has a secret in his past that's starting to infect the present. What happened to him that made him so devoted to the cause, and has him writhing in his mind. M/M with hints everywhere and a bit more... and Nivanfield fun.
1. Chapter 1

_How did I get here? Its been three years, I thought I was doing the right thing... I don't know what to do. Captain please, forgive me._

Fingers laced together at the back of of his neck, clasping to hold his arms up as cleansing water rained down across lithe shoulders, droplets running rivulets down over plains of well built pectorals. Following the lines and curvature of muscles forged by hours of dedicated training, all the way down to the bottom of the shower, circling the drain. He'd been standing there for hours, for what seemed like an eternity, hoping and praying that the water would wash him clean of the sins he knew he was guilty of. Warmth and steam had long since fled, replaced by the chilled droplets kissing his tan flesh. He had been so wrong about everything, water was meant to wash it away, but instead he felt them clinging to him, sucking the life from his body, the vampires. Finally running his hands over the back of his scalp until they came forward over his features, he tipped his head back down, watching the droplets that fell from his chocolate colored hair, he gathered himself, flipping off the shower head. This wouldn't help him. Standing here and allowing now cold drops of water to send goosebumps up his skin wouldn't make his crimes any less incriminating. Or was that the idea of what would happen next, the fear it caused to coil in his stomach and die? How could he ever explain himself if he didn't understand this himself? Who was he, really?

Staring at the uniform, pristine on its hanger beside his bathroom mirror, Piers bit the inside of his cheek. He had worked so hard, striven for so long to get that prized gift. He'd sacrificed his body and mind, trained religiously for that patch placed so proudly upon its shoulder. This is what he wanted, not the life he'd chosen. Not the path he'd fumbled down so blindly for the last few years. Piece by piece he'd make himself to the man he was meant to be, not the one he had been led to pretend to be. He was meant to save the world, meant to be the one that made a difference. The man outside, the one so proud of him, that was a man of honor. How had he not understood? Was he that naive? He'd been accepted into the B.S.A.A., he could never go back to that fatal mistake he'd made. He'd let himself become a weapon.. never again.

* * *

"Hey kid, you want really want to serve your country?"

A gravelly voice, almost bass hit Piers' ears as his eyes fluttered shut, trying to tone out the world as he took hold of the scope of his M4 rifle, tucking each piece in its proper place, within its specialty foam casing. He'd been on leave approximately thirteen minutes... whatever it was could wait. His fingers were coated in gun oil and the scent of sulfur was intoxication coy on Piers' senses, tingling and stinging his fingertips, manuevering over his weapon. If anything he had an affinity for the cold steel under his hands and he didn't want anything dragging him away from it, including someone looking to get an easy rise out of him. Love for a weapon was inaccurate, but this man was invading in a moment the man generally spent alone, not much unlike the rest of his life. Two years in the army and he was already evading the comradery that people tried bestowing on him and substituting it with the clutching beauty in his hands.

"Word is, if I need a sniper..." The words trailed off, whoever it was taking note of obvious dismissal, a knife slamming down into the table, banging. Wood picked, gouging a hole into the splinter surface and free standing, the meat hook of a hand clenching into a fist about the hilt, keeping the resonation from the blade quite. The force of gravity yanking whoever it had been jarred the entire table, the attached benches shaking under the weight, and forcing Piers to stop his work, a eyebrow cocking upward in sheer annoyance. Canting his head only slightly, he took in the appearance of the statue across him, not pretending to hide the feelings that spoke better than words. Gruff and sculpted from stone. Every man in the army had some story to tell but this guy was easily 6'3 and weighed a truck load. Built of anger and will power, heavy brows knit together, watching as hazel orbs looked him up and down, from the blond hair, the only thing well kept on his body apart from a straining uniform across an upper body that might have belonged once to a colossus, passed his five o'clock shadow of straw, and down to the markers of rank situated on his being. His arms were thick with ropes of muscle, flesh clinging to them so taut that you could see the veins beneath bulge with his ferocity. "You deaf or what boy scout?"

By obligation alone was he forced to respond. There was no denying a captain, even one he'd never met. Piers jaw clenched considering the man, his soft lips pursed as his lithe fingers tightening around the butt of his rifle, locked in a stare with the man, his gaze narrowing. It was obvious he was waiting for something and staring only made the larger hands clenching around the hilt of the knife cram in deeper into the table top before summoning it free. "Just got off duty..." It wasn't that Piers wasn't interested in whatever he needed, but whoever this was, wasn't looking to make friends and it was obvious he was looking for trouble. Who wasn't in their line of work? Soft tenor was almost inaudible, but forceful none the less, not concerned with speaking his mind. He drew a line down his rifle with the tip of one finger teasingly before continuing to disassemble it with rapidity afford to a man who knew his weapon well, never tearing his eyes away from the man before him. It didn't seem to bother him that the younger man was watching him as carefully as one would watch a lion, in fact it seemed to do the opposite, a large shark like smile had bgeun spreading across his face, strangely out of place on such a large chiseled jaw. "I'm on leave sir..."

"Sir? Heh." The man across from him finally broke the silence, shaking his head and looking about them with the hustle and bustle about, spreading his fingers and giving a wave about them, walking along passed the wooden area. "All these boy scouts around here ready for action and I asked you... makes you think doesn't it? I'm not looking for some second rate shit. Like I said, looking for a sniper, and from what I hear, you are _the_sniper. Nivans right?" A large mitt scratched the hair at the back of his head, a beret cap lopsidedly hanging in place. "You telling me you aren't interested boy?" There was such a rumble in his chest Piers almost had to strain to listen to him, but he was sure that from the pack of cigarettes poking out of his left jacket pocket. He was all bass, and sarcastic humor, biting every word like a viper that was poised to strike.

Spotting what Piers' eyes had finally settled on, the man in front of his countenance chuckled, pulling the red and white packet from his pocket, resting a cigarette between his lips and lighting it, cramming his supplies back begrudgingly into a breast pocket before taking a long drag, blowing the smoke back in the younger man's face, unflinching. Peeling the stick of toxins from his own mouth with middle and finger, he tipped it and offered the butt of it to Piers, who's eyes followed him briefly, leaning forward and letting him press the end betwixt his lips, taking in a breath against the thick fingers that held it in place. A deep throat chuckle managed from the unsavory blond, pulling it back to his own mouth greedily as smoke coils blew against his face from Piers' slightly parted lips. "Cute." The word snaked out sarcastically, taking one more drag to expand into his lungs before pressing it back to the younger man's mouth, lithe fingers coming up to catch it.

"What's so important, that I can't go on leave then captain? That you _need... _me." Whoever this was, they were asking him, not ordering him, which meant they didn't have orders at all. No commanding officer asked nicely for a kid his age to come on mission with him. He danced the cigarette between his fingers before dashing it on out the splintered wood. No matter what Piers Nivans was, he loved the game, and he knew his skills well enough to know that there was no second option. He loved hearing men like _this_, tell them they _needed_ him. More importantly Piers was a weapon of his country, he was there to serve it, and thrived by doing so. Playful as his tone had been, anything concerning the safety of men was his business, that never stopped him though from getting what he wanted. "So important a tough guy like you is giving up his last cigarette."

"Grab your gun, boy. It's time we got to know one another..., the name," A wide smile split across the man's face, gnawing at the savage pleasure of it all, "Jack Krauser."


	2. Chapter 2

"You aren't bad for a smart mouthed little shit... how'd you get dragged down into the likes of the boy scouts with aim like that?"

Krauser took a sloppy bite of undefinable fruit, bits clinging to his scruff, wiped away savagely with the back of his arm. Piers' perfect brow raised amused while he tipped the muzzle of his rifle back and forth between his hands, bouncing it about like a ping pong ball. "You mean into the army? Its called serving my country Jack. You would know since you serve under the same flag." He didn't laugh but it was hiding behind his eyes when the hulk of a man chuckled over his food, pacing the fire like a lion. Throwing irritating growls at the kid, he finally lashed out, snatching the barrel of the gun like a stick before it could bounce back into Piers palm. "Yeah alright Bruce Banner, if it appeases you... I'd hate to see you angry." Hands locked together behind his head, fingers entwining with each other until he could rest his head comfortably against his palms, ignoring the scowl he'd earned, or the heavy singing of Jack's combat knife shivering in its sheath. "I'm an army brat, always have been. My family has always been the military type. Couple of brothers in the navy, dad runs some stuff in Bethesda. It's genetic. I can't help it if it just so happens I'm the only one who could put a hole through your pretty blue eyes from three miles away in a heavy cross wind."

"HA!" Krauser threw the steely weapon back at Piers, nimbly captured in one hand. Pulling out a cigarette in replacement for the apple that thunked onto the ground, collecting bits of ash and dirt while it rolled into Piers foot. He used the one already rested in his lips to start the next, tossing the wasted butt into their fire. Jack smoked like a damn chimney, and he loved it, knowing the baby faced younger man had taken to hating cigarettes. He'd been trying to quit for some time, apparently ever since they'd first met, but every time Krauser lit up the man made sure to punish him for that little quick suck he'd taken off his cigarette the first time they'd met. "You want this?" It earned him an annoyed sigh, a hand pushing backward off the tree twigs snapping underfoot, the kid walking deliberately to meet him almost toe to toe. Tipping his head, he permit his commanding officer to force it against his lips, a hand dragging over the nape of his neck and int the short brown hairs to hold him there, getting a good look at those lips wrapped around the thing. Growling as hazel eyes refused to tear away from his, taking a long drag, Piers stepped backward, a reluctant claw of a hand releasing him. The bestial man threw himself onto the ground sucking his toxic coils into his belly, knees propped up with his back against a log. "One of these missions I'm going to smack that shit eating grin off your face. You like that too much. One of these days, I'll make you _really_work for that." He snickered, the crickets and blowing wind the only sound around them. Piers didn't need any kind of praise, the kid was already full of himself, but they both knew it wasn't because of his standing shots that go him recruited to these assignments. "Its because you can do that shit, while running on the fly. Not many out there can make a shot that good while running through heavy fire in rapid succession."

"Awww Jack, I didn't know you cared." If anyone else had said that Krauser might have knifed them there on the spot. He still might, but after their fifth mission together it was starting to get comfortable listening to the young brat running his pretty mouth. Piers had a level of comfort with dangerous people that others might find horrifying. He just found it rife with entertainment while others could barely move. Of course it didn't help that the younger man was completely aware of how much they needed him. Whoever _they_were. As far as he was concerned, as long as he saw the orders and did the research to make certain they were accurately founded, he was there whenever his boy dropped by. "You wish your knife could do that." His eyes were fixed again on that glowing red dot in the darkness, earning him a chuckle, which he shook off and began pacing, slipping his rifle around him like gun play in the academy.

Piers Nivans did not do well when he was bored. It ate at him like venom seeping into his veins and the longer he let it fester the more anxious he became. His footfalls were quiet, but that made them no less irritating for Krauser who was watching him pace back and forth, eyes flickering and over thinking all the details. Their mission was an overnight. They were waiting for whoever it was that they'd been ordered to bring in. Anti-terrorism at its finest was stopping those who would harm the country before they could do it, not after they already did. Every important little facet was clinging to him, traversing to the break in the tree line and saring with his eagle eyes down he ridge, calculating all the numbers in his head again, feeling the wind on his body, move him and hug him, feeling the shot before he'd need to take it. It was exciting to work in a field that no one else was allowed, even though it meant he wouldn't get credit for it where it was due. Krauser came with the missions, and he took the men with him once they'd apprehended them, then sent Piers home like every other mission. Sometimes he was there just to observe Piers' abilities in the field, but the only thing he'd observed so far was at twenty years old, this kid had some serious issues with boredom. Kneeling, he let his hands come out in front of him, mimicking the shot and lining it up, down to the very inch where they'd decided they needed him to drop, his fingers quietly tightening along the trigger until it clicked. This was his third time doing this. No bullets in the chamber.

"You forget what I can do with this knife kid?" The broader man, nodded toward the place next to him, "Stop moving around." He was watching pleased as Piers finally lowered his sights, reluctantly coming up beside him. Sliding down against the tree the bark nipped at the back of his jacket, tugging, resting his gun carefully between his knees and up against the crook of his shoulder. He loved pestering Piers almost as much as he liked tormenting Leon. He was easy to get a rise out of when he was on edge this way, shadowing his own steps and perfecting his craft... Except Leon couldn't take it and this kid would so long as it took his mind off the next four hours of waiting here. Of course no one else needed to know about his past with Kennedy, particularly not Piers. Umbrella had done good enough taking care of all Krauser's history, this kid was at least receptive to the idea that there were bigger things out there, he didn't need good ol' boy Leon sinking his claws into him and filling his head with garbage. Probably why he of all people had been sent to evaluate him in the first place. Hazel eyes had lofted back to the glowing stick, and Jack snickered, taking a deep long tormenting huff, and toying with it in his hand with his chin tipped back, admiring the cancerous addiction. "You've gotta earn it kid." It earned wanton groan, Piers tipping his head against the muzzle of his rifle and dragging his lips over the cold steel, the silent begging in his eyes granting him a rasping chuckle. That kind of cocky, sure fire attitude mixed with boredom was how he'd discovered the kid was always in for panicking for a challenge. Anything to take his mind off the clock, and Krauser was always happy to supply him with a challenge. "You can do better than that."

"Come on Jack... that's...," another sigh while the cigarette wafted in front of his face. "You know I'm not giving you anything more than a cock tease right? We're not even partners."

"Heh, who says we need to be partners for me to fucking run you into the ground Nivans? You want this cigarette or what?" Piers was moving before the man even finished his gruff sentence, leaning his weapon carefully against the dips of tree bark with rolled eyes, slipping agilely into Krauser's lap, no pretenses to anything but Jack's hand finding shoulder muscle and shoving the slimmer man downward with a grunt. Tipping his own head back and taking in another drag of sweet spoiled air while diligent fingers worked to open camouflage fatigues, tugging fabric and pulling a hardening member from black undergarments. There was no pause, just lips wrapping around a thick head, breathing balmy warmth over the stiffening flesh in hand, dragging his tongue over the slit in his head twice, ignoring any sounds of approval that stayed in the air between them. The moist heat was bringing a half stiff cock achingly quick to straining as a tongue slipped along the underside of his erection, sucking slowly along the thick girth until a hand jerked his head up, putting the cigarette back in Piers' mouth, letting him breath it in deeply while still poised between his legs, blowing smoke back down over his cock playfully. "Cock tease is right, do that again...," Krauser was a voyeur, that much was obvious after all the fun he got from watching Piers work with his rifle, but it was more than that. Watching Piers relish in a quick pull from the cigarette he tipped his lips to hover over that velvety head, holding it in his lungs while his fingers worked over straining arousal. He held in his breath longer than the other man would have liked, raising his hips to nudge warm flesh against pouted lips, blowing the coils of smoke back down around him. Piers wrapped his mouth back over the hot flesh, taking him almost completely into his mouth curling his tongue. He was humming to Krauser's groan, sucking him completely into his mouth and to the back of his throat, until he felt that hand reach for him again, jerking himself up with a heavy inhale, dropping out of his lap with a laugh.

"No idle threats from Jack Krauser right?" Piers laughed, arching his back off the ground, his elbows propping him up behind him as the tiny firelight danced off them both. His eyes were one the cigarette still, reaching out and swiping it with nimbleness, though Krauser didn't fight him on it. "That's the last time. More addicted to my mouth than you are these things aren't you?"

"Right..." Krauser snarled sarcastically, wrapping his hand around his own erection, feeling it throb in his hand, looking at Piers with something passed annoyed. Jack never got annoyed, just furious, which never boded well for either of them. He had orders though, his job wasn't to get professionally or personally involved, just decide if this kid was capable and willing to do what was asked of him. Still... they had a few hours at least before that truck came back, at least by his calculations. "Get back over here and finish the job."

"If I don't?" Piers was breathing in each drag carefully before tossing the thing disdainfully, annoyed with himself over all and pursing his lips as he watched the crackling embers dulling. "I'm trying to quit you know?"

"Now." Rolling bulging shoulders around while he cracked his neck, Krauser snarled, prying his knife loose with the other hand, digging it into the ground beside him. "Get your ass back in my lap before I fuck you bloody." _That,_was idle. Not that Piers needed to know it. They had only ever played at this game. Krauser would happily bend him over, just like anyone else, but he never did, on the basis that he would probably find himself out of a potential employer and at the bottom of the ocean if he botched this up. Piers was the end game, not the partner. He had orders and making certain they followed through was his business. He'd talked Piers into putting those pretty lips on his cock a few times, but Piers knew how to dance, that talented tongue always managed to snake its way out of finishing because missions outcome always came first. Once they had finished this mission he was going to drive a hole in him with his combat knife though if he continued to do that. Kid got gratification on his own watching full grown men like this one demand him around, more so by refusing to listen. They were staring at each other, the older man watching heat smoldering in Piers' eyes from fire, or perhaps his resilience to do anything despite the threat. "Now boy."

"Sorry _captain_..., company is home early." Immediately they were both on their feet, rifle in hand, crossing the clearing with scope lifted, his words trailing off as his aim locked easily. "Some scientist is about to have a very... bad...day."

* * *

**Piers is lucky someone's watching over him, or I think Krauser would have beaten him bloody for that.**


	3. Chapter 3

"Why join you?"

"It's very simple. The B.S.A.A. has rules and regulations that do not permit anyone they deem by age to be _juvenile_, to be recommended for duty. Meaning they deprive themselves of the opportunity that I am granting you. I don't have that problem. Talent means far more than a trivial number." Aristocratic English captured all attention, orange irises hooded behind slanted sunglasses not hiding the sharp angular features that masked Albert Wesker's profile. "The difference you claim to wish to make, the things my subordinate has shown you on my orders, I have done so knowing that people who are as... _gifted_ as you are, should be given the option of doing, as you stated earlier, ...the right thing. Those creatures are created by unrestrained bioterrorism, people capable of destroying the way of living for the remainder of eternity unless someone stops them. Those such people exist on every corner of the globe, places of course you would not be able to go or have access to, even if you were enlisted with your petty, Bioterrist unit." It had been a simple matter of phrasing, and manipulation of boyish dreams to save the world. Material swished together, the sound the only noise apart from Wesker's heels as he strut around the smaller man eyeing his stature and reading the way his words sunk in. It was extremely easy to examine with how he remained perfectly poised under even this man's gaze. He was so much like his precious Chris Redfield, those reminiscent features with the best variation, he was naive. "The program has entertained your interest long enough that Krauser informed me you applied twice. They're fools to have passed by the opportunity, and I am not a _fool_ Piers. Which means that my offer should allow for no restraining policies to have your acceptance immediately." Thumbing over his finger tips, the blond examined the creaking leather coiling into a fist before returning his full attention to the soldier, pleased to find him considering what he'd said with a sort of mild ease. "Continue pining after the one and only B.S.A.A. clean up and containment crew, _or_ prevent those from using it before it happens and work for _me_." His accent supported finality of the offer, crossing limber extremities over tephlon coated pectorals, tipping down his jaw just the slightest to observe over the edge of his glasses. It was simple. Either Piers Nivans worked for Albert Wesker, or the instant his resounding no hit the floor, so would his body.

A slight curl hinted at the corner of Piers mouth, canting his head from side to side while observing Wesker, determining on his own the validity of his statement, fingers pawing at the leg of his fatigues and the crimson splot on his thigh that stained it earlier that day. Stop the scientists before they spread disease and suffering? Before they became contagion thriving monsters that he had put down with more shots than he'd ever had to use on a living man? The field work he knew was devoid of recognition, he didn't need it anyway. In the B.S.A.A. they eliminate you as a human being and create a unit of men. At least in that manner Piers could remain an individual. He'd pined after the B.S.A.A. for years, it was all he ever struggled toward, the opportunity to work under Chris Redfield, a legend in his own rights, but then twenty-one was too young to be joining any institution like that according to the letters of dismissal he'd received. Well if they didn't want him, then Albert Wesker could have him. "You've got a deal."

"Excellent... In that case I believe... its time we get you better acquainted with the resources I possess. Krauser, get rid of that shabby rifle. I take care of my men."

Wesker wasn't conventional by any means, but he was just the sort of man that Piers had always envisioned working for. The kind of person with the resources to find those who would commit atrocities, and stop them before it happened. He was a one man prevention unit. Take out those who would do harm, take their samples back to Wesker, and get them analyzed for further preventative measures. It was simple enough. And of course there was the added bonus of every weapon he needed and the training to use them. He was doted on, and how could a person deny that? How was he suppose to know the prevention he had caused hadn't even touched the real master behind bioterrorism. Wesker was a man of ambition, he didn't want other people encroaching on the science behind what he did. Still he hadn't lied, Piers killed people who were willing to destroy the world, just not the one that had actually almost done it.

"How did you get that?"

Albert's voice was always cold, but the ice in it sometimes caught Piers off guard, jerking as the needle in his arm lanced into his flesh, drawing a bead of red to form. He'd learned quickly if you were asked a question it wasn't a rhetorical one, you answered and you did so quickly. "They had a lucky shot... Its just a graze." Less of a graze more of a puncture, it still required stitches. Didn't matter, he could take care of it himself, besides it wasn't as though he hadn't completed his job. He continued stitching his arm without looking up, knowing the sequence of events before they happened and hoping to merely flee before...

"No one is _lucky_ Piers, it all comes down to sheer talent. Some people have it, others...," the feeling of ink black leather brushing his naked spine setting off every alarm, "do not." Apart from Wesker, Piers rarely spent time with anyone, sometimes Krauser, but as soon as he'd accepted the offer it seemed like they never were on the same missions. It wasn't entirely bad, Krauser was a bit rougher around the edges that the younger sniper was really willing to indulge, and Piers honest to God wasn't very good with people. That of course was a stark contrast to his boss' extremely cool and collected demeanor that went unrivaled even by the countenance of a marble statue in Rome. "You were _reckless_." Don't argue with him that'll get you no where. "I expect _perfection..._, not _this_." A gloved hand snapped around the injury on his arm, the needle he'd been using to stitch thrust into his muscle urging an unbidden gasp as his hand was pined beneath the immeasurable power. "When I hired you I didn't imagine I would have the need to retrain your every step." Don't fight back. It hurts, but you can take it. "Remind me again Piers, do you like your job?"

"Yes." A single word response grit out from between Piers teeth, black clad hands _kneading_ the flesh around the needle, watching with ill humor the way it strained his words.

"Would you like to continue in my service?" A nod. He wasn't going to voice his opinion with the bruises forming under Wesker's fingertips adding unavoidable pain into his responses. "Then perhaps the next job I send you on won't reek so badly of failure." Piers locked his eyes on the floor in front of him, nodding silently with his jaw clenched. "_Good boy_..." Finally the hand removed itself, peeling with aching slowness, the needle he'd embedded in Pier's muscle, removed with mock care. "Its your first is it not?" The tone of the conversation was flipped instantly, Piers' taking in a sharp breath while diligent fingers, stitched with perfect accuracy, watching the wall while Wesker tended to the remaining stitches. Another short lived nod, earned one of those throaty hums of his commander's, the one he used while he considered something he already knew. "Perhaps you should be more careful next time... I don't think I would appreciate it if anything should happen to this," Another hand came up, stroking the side of Piers' cheek with the delicacy one might use to caress a sleeping child, the younger man unconsciously nuzzling the back of Wesker's hand as it pet his face.

It was always like this with Wesker. This battle of wills was no battle at all, rather, a dictatorship. Wesker was a viper. He slid over your skin with all the reassurance of those smooth slick scales and if you were the perfect soldier you could stay like that, confining strength urging your every movement, the fear of failure laced behind every move. When needed or provoked he'd crush the life out of you, letting go only so you could catch your breath and seek out that familiar comfort of strength and power, right back into the folds of his being. It was a perpetual cycle of drawing you in until there was nothing left but to nod and accept that he owned your soul. Powerful or not Piers' soul had not been for sale the day he joined himself with Wesker, only his skills. "You know how much you remind me of someone..." He was still allowing Piers the luxury of resting his face against his cool hand, finishing the stitching one handed and still as proficiently. Peeling both away from him, leaving that void only Wesker could while he stepped back to examine. "The resemblance is almost striking really,..except for _these_." Leather found his lips, the wetness on them clinging and shining against the material as they moved with the same smooth exacting nature the statuesque blond took in everything. "These are..." His words deliberately trailed off, glasses not even hiding the way eyes trailed down Piers' body, considering him carefully. "Redfield has no idea what he's missing, I don't imagine he ever will."

_He didn't know when that had started, this twisted engagement they entangled into. Wesker obviously had a history with Chris, the two seemed incredibly close if truth be told. That hadn't been the first time that a comment had been made about his appearance reminding him of his rival B.S.A.A. agent, but Piers' didn't mind it all too much. Whatever spared him the ridicule of the appearance of failure made things easier. Still it was so long ago that Piers couldn't remember when it had become alright in his mind that any one touch him that way, inflicting pain and treating it as normalcy. Chris would never hurt him that way, angry or not the man was always the vision of professionalism. Perhaps that was why it hurt so bad... the idea of telling him that it had all been... That he had worked against them for the last two years before now. Chris wouldn't need to know, Wesker couldn't get him here. Not with him so close to the one person he seemed to hate so much. He could stay here warm and untainted, clean his soul from the things he'd done and earn back a semblance of himself. The B.S.A.A. wouldn't let Wesker hurt him._

* * *

**Someone is underestimating the most notorious villain in video game history..._  
_**


	4. Chapter 4

Uncertainty began budding within the gut of the young prodigy ever since the Machiavellian aristocrat of a man introduced himself, and Piers was naive enough to believe what he had done was for the good of his country. In reality, he was at the mercy of this iceman, not even Jack Krauser gave him the feeling which plagued him in the presence of Wesker. Krauser was just a skilled grunt, just as he himself was treated, but Krauser seemed not just to buy into this dangerous situation, he wholly believed it was some kind of crusade. Days grew bitter cold within the underground headquarters he had called home for 2 years. It was odd how just a year ago, it never felt cold due to the industrial heating system, but his heart weighed heavily, and he began to understand that this desolate place in Antarctica was nothing but a tomb for anyone but Albert Wesker. Piers sat on he edge of his bed, covered only by a pair of ivory boxer briefs, that which held firm against his round ass, bare forearms resting against his knees as he lowered his head. It would be a few hours until morning, but sleep had given him the cold shoulder.

Donning his tactical gear, it had become like a second skin after so many missions. He eventually became numb to the sight of a human head bursting like a squeezed grape with just the pull of a trigger; was he serving his country as he was led to believe, or becoming a sociopath? He'd killed plenty of people during his tour in the army, but those people at least had some kind of fighting chance. Dark rings had developed beneath his eagle eyes, there was no telling what he would have done to Krauser now for a Marlboro red to ease his nerves. He hadn't officially quit, but he hadn't had one in almost two months. Two months too long. Muttering an obscenity under his breath, he reached down to the magazine rigging wrapped around his toned thigh, plucking a spent .50 caliber rifle bullet betwixt gunner's gloved fingers, staring at it solemnly before he brought it up to his cock-sucking lips. Exhaling an exaggerated sigh as the end of the round dangled there, pursing his lips as they milked at that bullet enough to bring color to any man's face. At this point, he might as well knock on Krauser's door and give him that finish he deprived him of before, at least it would have been something warm. Reaching out to clutch the muzzle of his rifle, he hefted it up to lean it against his shoulder, setting foot outside of his room and sauntering down the empty corridor.

Few "employees" were allowed to wander the facility during the long hours of the night, unless summoned by Albert Wesker himself. Still, he could hear the sound of stumbling footsteps coming his way. Pausing mid-step, Piers waited coolly, back to the wall, as the footsteps neared the corner. Heavy breathing accompanied the steps, and he quickly slid a hand down to the grip of his sidearm, waiting for a creature to round the corner, had something invaded the facility? Under Wesker's security? It was unlikely. A white coat immediately flashed around the corner, causing Piers to scowl inwardly, it was just a pencil pushing scientist. As soon as the scientist came into view, the man looked absolutely frantic, with long, dark stringy hair clinging to the sweat dripping down his face. Piers allowed his hand to linger upon the sidearm for a moment longer until the white coat finally noticed him, earning a sharp gasp as hands were shakily raised in the air. "N-No.. please." Piers cocked his head to the side and chewed curiously upon the bullet currently doing a shit job sating his habitual fixation, removing his hand from the holstered weapon and crossing his arms over the flak covering his chest. "Don't shit yourself, your head's not on my list." Trembling like a frightened child, the scientist nodded his head while a sob escaped his mouth, looking as though he was about to have an emotional breakdown.

Piers watched as the white coat shuffled past him, urine trickling down his pant leg, soaking into the fabric. Piers wrinkled his nose at the scent, nearly decking the idiot as he passed and bolted down another corridor. Pushing away from the wall, he flickered the tip of his tongue to graze against the metallic end of the bullet between pouted lips while he continued in the direction the scientist had came from. What in the hell would have scared a white coat that much? Had Wesker decided to make the poor fuck his butt-puppet? Or maybe Krauser conned him into playing his favorite game of five finger fillet, where the man playing the game only lost a finger when Krauser was in an especially foul mood. Whatever it was, he was bored, and therefore would get to the bottom of it. Combat boots created echoing footfalls as the corridor he continued down soon had pressurized doors with numbers above them. Storage areas for the viral samples that were to be analyzed by Wesker himself, he was told. As he passed by the doors, he nonchalantly peeked into the rectangle pane serving as the only window into the rooms. For the most part, the rooms seemed empty, chewing still upon the metallic bullet as he rolled it between his soft tiers side to side. It wasn't until he came across movement in one of the rectangles that he did a double-take, he wasn't quite sure if his mind registered what his eyes witnessed. Furrowing his neat brows, he took a step back while lowering the rifle from his shoulder, his hand moved to the pistol grip of the rifle, the other hand steadily placed below the foregrip as the rifle was lowered.

Within the room, a naked man sat strapped to a chair, sobbing so hard his body shook, shaking his head continuously. Piers gripped the foregrip of his rifle tighter, and he could tell even through the window that the restrained man was sickly, his flesh was milky green, his eyes reddened and his face tear-stained. Piers couldn't identify the man, but he most certainly identified the figure standing across from the nude male. A posture which could put any soldier to shame, a black Teflon jacket, flawless blonde hair and an expensive pair of sunglasses gave Wesker away immediately. In the corner of his eyes, he could see the bonded man helplessly thrash in the chair, it looked as if he were begging. As soon as Wesker turned to the male, a black, open suitcase now showed upon a table containing vials. Piers recognized the vials immediately, as he was on the mission to retrieve them and eliminate the scientists, but they were to be analyzed, not tested. Feeling sick to his stomach, he simply watched as Wesker lifted a syringe filled with the very same substance in the vials, it was viral, a biohazard, and this man was chosen as a lab rat. Had the scientist fleeing down the hall been part of this? While Wesker swaggered towards his test subject, he lifted a leg and put his boot down upon the bare groin of the male, stepping down upon the shriveled cock and balls, the male could do nothing but open his mouth in a scream that Piers could only imagine. Wesker took advantage of the subject who froze in pain, grabbing him by the hair and yanking his head to the side with enough force that it could have very well broken his neck. Wesker sealed the unknown male's fate by sticking the needle of the syringe into his exposed neck, his leather clad thumb pressing down to inject the virus into his lab rat before yanking the needle from his neck, removing his boot from the subjects groin and wiping it on the floor in a disgusted manner. Albert Wesker was a nightmare, and Piers wanted to wake up.


	5. Chapter 5

Insubordination was unacceptable. Sometimes to create, one must first destroy, and weakness would be weeded out. It seemed the good doctor lacked the intestinal fortitude necessary to participate in the newest experimental design. Brilliant vermillion slitted eyes flared beneath the tinted lenses of his sunglasses as they stared in the direction of the fleeing scientist with cold calculation. Stifling a venomous sneer, once his viral work with his '_test subjec_t' was complete, the heels of calf-high leather boots created silent footfalls as they brought him down the corridor outside of the room. Albert Wesker would not bother sending his foot-soldiers to hunt down the gnat of a doctor named William Rabitson, he would be dealt with _personally_. Each corner he passed, the sleek, Teflon long-coat he often donned flowed to the side like an umbrageous phantom. Avoiding the trickling trail of urine which undeniably once belonged to the doctor, his rate of speed increased significantly while he continued the pursuit through a labyrinth of sterile hallways. It hadn't taken long to locate Dr. Rabitson, his stumbling footsteps resonated from the boiler room of the underground facility, desperately seeking a place to hide and lay low. Wesker casually stepped to the front of the boiler room entrance, his gaze panning over the planes of the room of main distribution piping and heat exchangers. The doctor peeked from the spot he found, crouched behind a back-up electrical generator, his eyes beginning to tear.

"You are unfit to live in _my world_." Setting foot within the boiler room, Teflon sleeves crossed behind the small of his back while he paced in a predatory fashion. As he spoke out to wherever the doctor hid, the tone of his voice, condescending as always, held a hint of sick humor to it. Cupping a trembling hand over his mouth to quiet the sound of his breathing, the doctor waited until the impressive specimen of a man was out of sight before he made a mad dash, stumbling over his own feet in a panic to the door. Moments before his fingertips could reach the touch pad to open the pressurized door, his entire body shook with an intense and sudden impact, the brunt of it felt against the left-hand side of his back. Watery eyes which began to glaze over flickered from side to side as he stood frozen in place, his expression of bewilderment, as he saw nothing, a simple blink and his heart began an irregular heartbeat, slowing steadily. Wesker stood behind the doctor, teeth bare as his lips curled back to reveal a shark-like grin. His haughty voice could be heard speaking into William's ear as a leather-bound hand lifted, slender fingertips curling beneath the doctors chin, taking a firm grip. "You failed me." As the arrhythmia progressed, the doctor coughed and sputtered as blood rose from his esophagus, dripping from his lower lip while he gave a pathetic whimper. Allowing the doctor a few precious moments of realizing his inevitable death, the gloved hand reaching over the doctor's shoulder and holding the doctor's chin with a vice-like grip, suddenly gave a snapping jerk to the side, severing the vertebrae. William's eyes rolled up into the back of his head as the gloved hand slithered away from his face, the broken body capsizing forward onto itself and hitting the closed door with a resounding, sickening thud.

* * *

It sunk in like an anchor digging into the seafloor, the revelation of him being nothing more than a pawn for the puppeteer with a god complex. Piers could still vividly see the man in the chair thrashing from seizures before the real nightmare began. Craving a cigarette now more than ever, he paced in his room, clutching the rifle in his hands. Over time, he had lost count of how many lives ended by the tip of his rifle's muzzle, but it had been for a good cause, right? They were bio-terrorists. Frustrated over his own inner-conflict, he reached up and plucked the bullet which had been worked every which way by his full lips, throwing it to the ground with an angry grunt. Those scientists he had hunted under the orders of Wesker had been small time, paid by independent companies to most likely sell on the black market. They were dangerous, but they were flounders in the sea compared to the shark he worked for, who preyed upon them and stole their viral designs for his own personal gain. One shot, and he could end the terror he contributed to. One bullet in the head of Wesker, and while he may be killed, it would be for the greater good. His flak jacket was suffocating, and instantly the cold metal in his hands was dropped to the cot in his room and he was struggling furiously with the straps that clutched it to his body, heaving it off and into the corner. It wasn't that he hadn't been doing good. He'd done good. That was everything wasn't it? His life had always been about being the good soldier, the one who would save the world, make a difference. He was making a difference. One that was inevitably aiding a war criminal in creating hell on earth. And if successful, what did Wesker even have planned for all these bio-hazards. Was it all part of the design that he would release such contagions on the planet?

Cold or no, Piers couldn't catch a breath. There was a boa constrictor wrapped around his body, tightening every inch of life from him until he was collapsed over the floor, one hand braced against the cot and his knees on the floor. His fingers of his idle hand wrapped around his own neck briefly considering all the blood on his hands. The pain, the jolt when his nails bit and pulled flesh brought a sharp hiss through partially agape lips, sucking in a shallow breath. Breathe... Nivans, just breathe. Stillness washed over the room, hands slipping like dead weights to cup over the tops of his knees, fixing his sharp eyes on the gritty floor of his prison floor. There was a way out, always a way out. Just think. Quietly, hazel orbs caught on the sable metal, running an almost loving hand over it. There was always... a way out. The metal kissed the skin on his fingers, reminding him of the end to all souls that he had administered to throughout his years here. Those people hadn't expected an end, but had received it all the same, the simple out. The metal sang to him, spoke volumes of what he was capable of, reminded him of his person. No, he couldn't take an easy out from all of this, he'd earned everything that had happened to him up until this point, he could still fix this. Stroking the cool ore, Piers righted himself slowly, first pulling one knee off the ground and then the other, standing to his full posture, weight through to the one side as always while he let a short-lived smile steal over his features until there was clarity, sweet clarity.

"Hey, kid!"

Gravelly, hoarse words hit the door and traversed the plane between. Cocking a perfect brown, Piers let it wash over him. Of course it would be Krauser. When you want to train a soldier, you use the men you aim to be; when they want your obedience send in the pitbull. Fisting the tip of his rifle, Piers shouldered the weapon, his lean weight pushing against the door that held fast, steadying himself as those slim fingers wrapped precariously around the brass door handle, putting all his fear aside and replacing it with that usual cocky demeanor. Piers was a soldier, he didn't fear death. At the preamble of the growl on the other side of the door, Piers tore back the thing, leaning in the frame with a cool sort of disregard that accentuated his features well. "Jack. Always good for one thing aren't you?" The kid chuckled despite himself reaching out completely unbidden to do so and took the cigarette clean out of Krauser's mouth, incredulous eyes following those deft fingers as they placed it in his own mouth taking a life altering drag. "Thanks." Incredulity manifested on every inch and twitched muscle of Krauser's square chiseled jaw, grinding teeth that had most likely suffered years of ill treatment as he thundered out a growl, that would have moved someone with less to lose. Piers just smiled, toying with the stick pleasantly, focused solely on it lazy coils of smoke raising from between pouted lips, blowing slowly and relishing in their calm. Dancing it over his knuckles, finding it once more in his mouth, he pushed back off the door, daring Krauser with a single look that spoke much more than his usual sarcasm and candor.

"Boss man wants you, boy." Maybe it was Piers' expression that spoke no nonsense, but he brushed passed the older man with a kind of ease that Krauser never would have pegged him for. It was a step passed arrogance and into something more of complete understanding. Whatever it had been, he never lost step with him, striding with heavy footfalls through the corridors. The purposeful gait moved them silently through the halls, no words or banter passing between them as always. Krauser wasn't a consoling human being and he wasn't a stupid one either. The intent motions which carried them through the facility were like a metronome that ceased with impending doom at the threshold of Wesker's awe impressive patch of surveillance heaven. Silent and standing side by side, Piers granted Krauser a slight cant of the head, peeling the butt of the cigarette away from his dry lips, dropping it casually on the ground, snuffing it with combat boot heels before the entrance slid open on its own, earning a wink from Krauser before he stepped inside the darkened lair of his ultimate doom.

Within the impressive vault of an office, holograms of security footage covered the dark walls, one image catching the young sniper's eye, the very same scientist that had been encountered, scared shitless by the sight of him with his rifle, stumbling into what looked like an engineers room, moments later the familiar sight of his boss approaching the same door and entering it causing him to swallow hard, yet he saved face and managed to maintain that confident demeanor. "You rang?" Within the center of the room, Wesker himself sat upon a plush leather office chair, a series of control buttons upon the arm rests. His long, Teflon jacket removed and hung nearby, one lean, muscled leg crossed over the knee of the other, his gloved hands clasped below his angular jaw. His attention was undeniably upon the holographic scene Piers had took note of the moment he entered the room. There was no doubt in his mind that the scientist would be stripped naked and buried in ice and snow, or left out to feed anything carnivorous roaming the harsh terrain. "Being against evil does not make you good. Tonight I was against it and then I was evil myself. I could feel it coming just like a tide... I just want to destroy them. But when you start taking pleasure in it you are awfully close to the thing you're fighting." Silence filled the air moments after the Machiavellian figure spoke in his crisp, educated tone. Not moving, his back was to Piers as if he were awaiting a response, the silence felt like an eternity as Piers stood his ground and furrowed his brows, was this some kind of test?

"Yeah, well... who needs labels, right? Good, evil. All that matters is that we put these chemistry-kit jokers on lock-down. When I'm taking names, 'good,' or 'evil' aren't what sights my targets, sir."

"I summoned you here not for your philosophy, rather your skill in the field of battle. Make no mistake, Piers, this is all part of a war. If you wish to survive, continue to follow as you're told. Although this is far more than a military operation, still, it offers certain benefits you may find appealing. This will be your opportunity to show your allegiance. You have succeeded in every mission to date, I trust you will continue to do so, without question. On the northern coast of Ecuador, a shipment is to be received. It will be your mission to intercept that shipment, and ensure there are no witnesses. Understood?" Wesker's chair swiveled and rotated as he was turned to face the young prodigy, his attractive countenance unreadable, all the more so due to his sunglasses, which he was never seen without. He had worn a Teflon collared shirt zipped up to his neck, the musculature of his midsection outlined by the material, his firm pectorals pronounced as well as his washboard abdomen. Long sleeves had been pulled back nearly to his elbows, his gloved fingers intertwined. A solo mission? This was unexpected, he was almost always accompanied by Jack, who watched over him like a hawk and moved like a damned puma, or Ada Wong (or as Krauser liked to call her, 'the bitch in red'). His chances of escape would have been slim to none with either of them accompanying him, unless he had the chance to focus a point blank shot.

"Crystal, boss." Even if this was a test to see if Piers would fess up to seeing anything, well if it was or not it wouldn't matter. Once he had the chance, Piers Nivans was going to be a ghost. Until then however, Wesker read men like they were children's books, and it was imperative to keep a straight face and that same arrogant swagger he had in everything he'd done. "And the shipment? You want it diverted here? I'll gear up and be on the next boat to Ecuador."

He pushed his hip to the side and leaned his weight on one leg, lifting an arm to swipe the back of a fingerless glove across his cheek. "Yes, the shipment is to be delivered here. Disable the ship's radio communications. No contact. You will update me on the situation the moment you spot the ship. Consider yourself dismissed." Piers paused for a moment and arched a slender brow, a gloved hand upon his jutted hip, before he nodded his head and took a step back before moving to the door, standing there for a moment as the door remained closed, before shooting a glance over his shoulder as Wesker spoke once more. "There is no hunting like the hunting of man. And those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter." Just then, the door opened by way of control button from the arm of the chair. Piers remained quiet as he set foot outside the door and down the corridor, exhaling a deep breath.

* * *

**Here's the set up, wait for the punch line Wesker.**


	6. Chapter 6

Hunting men? Wesker had lived twisting people into husks and turning their minds into sickening labyrinths of gore and callousness too long. Of course, it wouldn't take long for a man as resourceful as Albert Wesker to find that Piers had slipped his transport and left the supply import in the secure hands of their living crew, but it had given him long enough to make an escape capable of getting him back to the states. Possibly the ticking clock on the wall wouldn't have passed more than five minutes before Wesker would have grown suspicious that he didn't report it, but with that it earned him a day's head start, give or take. Long enough that if this worked or not he was at least out of Albert's ferocious grip. He wouldn't be destroying any more faces with the point of his anti-material rifle, not for that man. Fingers drummed ceaselessly on the table, nervousness gripping at his chest, the kind he had only ever experienced during those long nights he had spent in the with the army, not knowing if the next morning would bring their men home or deeper into death. Anxiety had latched onto him like an octopus that was waiting to drag him into the depths of the brine filled ocean if this didn't work out in his interest. His knee was bouncing up at down rapidly, leaning his weight over the top of the table and sucking quietly on the end of the pen. Curling his tongue around the smooth surface, ignoring the tastelessness of plastic and rather, focusing on the grain of the maple wood conference table he was drooping his torso over. Elbows rested uncomfortably on the lacquer finish, sore from almost three hours of waiting. Whatever was keeping them it didn't matter, it gave him time to pray that when they returned, it was with news of relief, rather than a death sentence. If Wesker thought he was going to take it laying down, then he was sorely mistaken, because he knew the one place where he couldn't be reached. The one place Wesker wouldn't dare stick his sickly venomous fingers.

"Piers Nivans?" Hazel eyes jerked up, hands immediately pulling away the pen in his mouth, posture and all his army training not lost over the years, snapping him to a standing attention. The older woman at his side with her bun tied up tight, stepped aside uncomfortably, pushing thick framed glasses up her nose as the frame of the door was filled with another man's presence. "Captain Chris Redfield." He fought the initial response to let his mouth pull open in surprise, nodding instead, only recognizable to the man standing in front of him. When he'd come back to the states looking for an out, he'd imagined the B.S.A.A. was the best place to start, his response letters before had always marked him as too young, but now that he wasn't, he'd thought that would warrant them looking him over for placement. That being said, he'd never imagined when he came in to the headquarters of the infamous establishment that it would grant him a chance to lay his eyes on this man. The secretary standing beside Chris Redfield only came to the man's shoulder, and a bicep that was crossed over the man's expansive chest was thicker than her head. This thick muscled frame could have easily belonged in league with sculptures found in the great museums, and it was impressive enough the younger man found himself staring before startling his attention up to a countenance that read a variety of humor and business that might have rivaled anyone. Jack could have only wished to have those deep mahogany eyes set scrutinizing well on Piers' own, allowing him to take it in before taking a heavy step forward. Fear grabbed Piers again, shifting his weight again in hopes of not looking so completely out of place. His uniform spoke volumes that he wasn't taking no for an answer, but Chris wasn't honestly the type that could have been intimidated. His own uniform was more for displaying his girth than for meaningless display of rank.

"Are you going to say something or just stand there and stare, because believe me kid, I have a lot more crap to deal with today, all of which takes more presidence than talking one on one with an ex-black ops drop out." It wasn't cold, just short and uncomfortable. The deep tenor washed over him like a drug. So this was what he'd spent all those years trying to get involved with. People who obviously knew what they were doing and why, because this man had made this company. He'd been its founder. "I looked at your file. Why'd you leave the military? You went off grid for two years and then pop up here and you want me to give you a gold star and sign you up?" Legit questions, and straight to the point, every single one of them. Obviously Wesker had already altered the records to show what had really happened. Before now, Piers was still marked as working for the military, but of course that wouldn't stand if he was looking to make things harder on the young man. Even through the questioning Chris didn't seem all too concerned, just impatient since he had things to do, clenching his stubbled jaw, waiting for answers. Still, he was staring too. Taking in all of Piers with a single roaming glance that ended at the pen clasped tight in Piers hand, a slick sheen on it that brought his eyes back to Piers' face, taking a once over of the younger man in front of him and the lips that had no doubt been sucking on the end of the pen out of nervous habit. Chris wasn't stupid, he could tell when someone was on edge, and it wasn't as though anyone was trying hard to hide it.

"I dropped out of the army because I was tired of not making a difference. I did enough time around the rest of this planet to know there's a lot more out there than some guy waiting in secret to plan his next little remote bombing. I've applied to the B.S.A.A. three times sir, twice you sent me letters of condolence about how I was too young for the program despite having been properly trained. The things I've done in the line of duy are things any rookie sniper could do, at least ones that are dedicated. I'm good, and there's no reason why I should be denied the opportunity just because someone thinks 22 is too young to be out there saving the world, even though I've taken more lives in the line of duty than most any man who ran in service with me." Piers tone suggested arrogance, but in all actuality it was far from it. He'd spent two years with Jack and Albert telling him he was the best in his line of work, and they hadn't hesitated to grab him when they had the chance. The captain, didn't seem very impressed on that note though either, just kept letting himself take in the younger soldier like a piece of art. Occasionally wetting his lips whenever Piers would stop talking, watching those lips move silently and waiting for a break in his sentences. Heavy set shoulders become more relaxed despite the tension that seemed predominate in his brow.. "I've passed every test your people have given me, and most of them heads above the rest. So you tell me captain, why is it the third time I applied... I get to see you face to face?" He hadn't asked to see Chris, he hadn't even been looking for him, but of course now that he was standing in front of him it seemed like everything. He wanted this more than anything he had before, and not just because he was looking for some way to keep himself safe from Wesker's prying hands, but because this was redemption.

"Cocky aren't we?" Chris couldn't help but smile, that lopsided grin he got whenever he was joking around with one of the guys, before his arms went loose around his torso, lowering to his sides. As he did so, the secretary excused herself and Piers finally took a breath, leaning his weight back to his right heel and putting his hand on his hip. They were staring, hazel into deep brown, almost onyx. Chris obviously had the upper hand,, he knew whatever the answer was and was allowing Piers to stew on the idea that this was just a formal 'stop applying and get a job.' A deep breath swelled his chest, the large expanse filled with air before Chris laughed, completely unexpected and setting the man in front of him in shock, cocking a well shaped brow and looking around him at the missed joke. "Two years, straight out of high school in black ops. You are obviously good kid, no one is denying that. You're either brave, or really stupid though to keep applying," Chris smiled, carding his fingers through his own ruffled hair and shaking his head, the gravity of the decision weighing between them. His eyes kept coming up to that discomfort and ease wrapped up in Piers person like a puzzle. "Either way, Alpha team is happy to have you. I was kind of hoping you'd reapply. I was watching your file for a while now. Believe me when scores like that come across with someone underage, you pray they come back." There was a happiness in Piers brain that must not have translated in his eyes, swallowing the tight knot in his neck. This was his idol, his once longed for and relentlessly pursued one. He finally had what it was that he'd always wanted. Still the idea of what had got him here was what was killing him slowly inside. Even Chris' confusion, translated in a furrowed brow, wasn't enough to earn him a response, just a brief nod, the same as earlier. "Hey, you hear me?"

"Yes Captain." Piers responded mechanically, biting his own tongue for having sounded so defeated. You should just tell him now, let them arrest you and take you into custody. Tell them where everything is, the locations of all the shipments, the name's of all the men you've killed. All the faces you've taken off the planet under orders of a psychopath that has corrupted and destroyed everything he's touched. "I'm sorry captain, just shocked that's all. I honestly... thank you." He let a partial smile slip over his features, but it never fully crossed those lips. Chris looking all the more confused. He was just offered the opportunity of a life time. But Wesker had stained his soul. Accepted or not, there was a black mark on him he couldn't cleanse, and it destroyed every joy he'd ever imagined in receiving this kind of news. From meeting Chris. Those things should have lifted him up, he should want to drink, see friends do anything else but stand here and stare through this amazing legend before him as though he were just another figment of an imagined life he would never get to experience. Even in their own rights, Piers should have felt some kind of joy, but seeing this person was like seeing the man he'd never get to be. "Where do I report sir?"

* * *

**Poor Piers, so sad. Don't worry, Chris will cheer you up in no time : )**


	7. Chapter 7

**A quick POV from Chris' view point... Piers is next!**

* * *

Chris rolled a rifle bullet between his fingers, staring at the brass casing and letting it hypnotize him with its shimmering implications. He'd been watching Piers suck on this thing all afternoon like it would eventually give the young ace purchase. Of course that accomplished much more than probably earning him a hand full of comments on his mouth from the others, but it hadn't stopped the younger man from staring directly at Chris every time he'd roll it over on his tongue. They'd been partners for the last year and ever since the promotion it seemed that the younger man hadn't hesitated an instant to make it obvious to Chris how he felt, he'd opened up significantly since the first time they'd met. He was collected and confident, and had a hell of a talented mouth that more than once had managed to make the leader of their group need to step away during training. The young ace knew it too. That damn fixation of putting things between those lips was going to get Chris killed in the line of duty if he continued to do it. He stared at the casing and swallowed down the growing lump in his throat, trying to change his line of thinking before he found himself with more of an issue straining against the fabric of his ink black boxer briefs. They were already tight enough thinking about how if felt when he'd pulled the bullet form his partner's lips, those warm pouted pillows parting ever so slightly, with a smile threatening at the corners, when Chris finally dared to tip his finger inside that warm opening. It had been to pull the bullet away, but still it was hard to envision anything but letting Piers suck on his fingers or better yet his straining hard on. Still... Chris couldn't imagine ever acting on it. He had a hard time voicing his opinions at all around Piers regarding anything but work. Piers was an amazing partner, irreplaceable to the point where he would ever dare talking to him about anything pertaining to his feelings.

It wasn't as though Chris didn't understand himself. He understood completely. Just that, Piers had confidence and self assurance that bought him the kind of cockiness that others saw in him, that seemed to basically scare the pants off everyone on their team. He moved with a kind of integrity that enveloped him and made him so inaccessible even if he was brave enough to make an advance on him. He wouldn't have even known where to start with this kind of thing, not to mention that the younger man made it painfully obvious that he expected Chris to make a first move between them, either to save his own behind from sexual harassment since Chris was his superior, or from the humiliation of being denied. Piers didn't need to act to let Chris know that he was interested, but Chris was so concerned on how to approach the kid that it was difficult to tell for himself how this would turn out. Why else would he have just stood there and let his captain take the cold metal from those parted lips without retaliating? For the last year Chris had watched as Piers transformed from a silent protege, into an amazing partner, who read the field like a magician. Fingering the shining piece of weaponry he cautiously touched it to his own lip, checking his door to make certain it was in fact closed while he tested his tongue against the tang of it. It was a bad idea anyway, getting involved with a man like Piers, let alone the factors of his age, or the major fact that they worked together. There was literally seventeen years of age between them, and it was always so obvious to him even though it never seemed to stay the straying fingers that grabbed his shoulder in mission, or those lingering stares. How does someone even approach a person that self aware?

Urgency pushed Chris into letting himself taste the metal again, running his tongue over it like Piers had done earlier, the vision making his erection kick painfully. Staring at the door, Chris growled, irrationality bringing color to his face while he unzipped the front of his fatigues, moving fabric aside to free his cock, gripping it immediately starting to work his fingers over the heat of his flesh up and down, feeling the throb of it against the cold of the room. His hand was flying over himself before he knew it, gripping the brass white knuckled and imagining those wonderful lips wrapped tight, breathing heat on his cock and bringing him to the edge of madness. A loud knock on the door and Chris was shoving himself back into his fatigues, growling under his breath at how damn foolish he was for all of this. How could he allow such a moment of weakness. The throbbing in his head was only equal to the one in his pants, clutching the the .50 caliber bullet tight in his fist. "What is it?!"

"Captain?"

Piers voice was musical and reminded Chris of everything he wanted but couldn't have, a jolt of lust coating his arousal, making it ache. "Come in." Chris immediately released the bullet, tossing it across his desk as the younger man pushed through the door, standing with his hip pushed out, and one hand cupping the jutted surface. "What's the matter Nivans, I thought that all the boys are finally out on leave. I know you don't like getting completely smashed, but I figured you'd at least like to go out with the men and grab a drink." Honestly, he had been hoping to do the same. At least that was until the idea of being in a bar with Piers Nivans and those teasing fingertips had stalled him. He couldn't have risked getting drunk and making a complete ass of himself. Not that he hadn't done that already, sitting in his office fucking his own hand to the idea of his partner sucking on a rifle casing.

"Drinking isn't my thing captain. You know that." The amusing tone played on soft pouted lips easily, sauntering across the office room carefully. Meeting eyes with the captain perched angrily in the chair, moving around the side of the desk. Chris was swiveling slowly in his chair, making certain to keep his body hidden behind the heavy oak desk so that the evidence of what he had been doing would remain hidden from Piers' penetrating gaze. The younger man reached across the expanse, dropping his hand almost into his captain's lap, Chris jerking away while his partner danced his fingertips silently over the planes of the table until they found what they were seeking. "Just came to get this back captain...," pulling the brass back up off the table, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, before drawing it up to his lips. "You dismissed us before ever returning it. It was this or.. I'd have to find something else more... fitting captain."

Chris hissed out a breath seeing those lips kiss at the side of brass. "Why don't you just buy a pack of cigarettes Piers? You distract the entire team. Marco spent half the afternoon blushing so red that I thought he'd get a nose bleed the way you were working that thing. It's a rifle bullet Piers not a damn pacifier for your kinky little habits. Particularly when we are going out on mission together... guys might be on leave Nivans, but you aren't."

"You think I'm kinky, captain?" The words slid off Piers tongue slowly, flicking it against the bullet before nudging i into the magazine holder on his thigh. "Or is it just the rest of the team you are worried about?" The statement sent a thrill over Chris, swallowing back fear and desire all in one, hoping to hide from them and everything else by keeping his mouth shut. Words would have betrayed him at this point, and everything Piers said went straight to his groin, causing his voice to hitch. Pooling in his stomach, he grasped at the straws left of his authority. Piers was quiet though, said nothing more than that quick little flick of his tongue over the cold metal before the younger man retreated from over the desk, giving Chris a quick glance over his shoulder that could have sent envy into any man's heart, not to mention how it made Chris's cock ache.

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**Oh dear Chris... you take things fast.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Piers' POV, then we'll switch back to normal : )**

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Piers had been Chris' partner almost from the beginning. Since day one they had been inseparable. Probably Chris' way of trying to get him to open up he supposed, most as like since the day he arrived he'd pushed to prove himself worthy of everything they were fighting for. Piers lived and breathed anti-terrorism, never took a break. Chris had taken it on himself to take charge of him. He smirked staring at the rifle bullet he'd gotten back and flopped on his bunk, swinging his legs over to drop them on the bed, spinning the shining casing slowly between his fingers while thinking back on the last year of events. When he'd first joined up with the B.S.A.A. Chris had spent the first weeks of training vetting him, trying to find out where he'd been, who he was with, if there was any way that he'd break if anyone else got a hold of him while working for the B.S.A.A. It was important to know that someone who joined could keep their mouth shut, and those few weeks had him stressed to the point of chewing his nails to the quick. He was horrified at the idea of Chris finding out his dirty little secrets, or Wesker sending someone to take him out. They kept their files close to the vest that was certain and Piers wasn't sure he could rest easy even up until now, he felt safer here, bu never just at peace. There were times when someone said something too close to home or he met eyes with people in the field and was certain they knew, but then there was Chris. Every fearful look, distressed comment, and Chris was there reassuring him like an older brother. Of course, Piers learned long ago that his feelings for his captain were nothing akin to family bonds. Spending time with the man was like scrubbing his soul clean. Every time they met eyes in the field, the feelings of concern or inadequacy dissolved, and turned his stomach, sharpening his senses and tightening his motions until he felt like he was flying through every test, or drill, or mission. He was making up for everything that he'd done by saving Chris. More than once he'd made certain that his captain made it out alive, despite his reckless behavior. He saved the more experienced soldier a minimum of eight times in the last year, from certain death, and the others counted it as more, but they were happenstance rather than intentional saves. Every time he made the right choice, saved the right man, or acted on his own in a way that reflected well on their unit, Chris' hand would find his shoulder and squeeze, giving him those kind reaffirming eyes that Chris liked to share only with him..

And he was always touching him. Well... it went both ways. Piers put his hands on Chris every opportunity he could. They were partners, it wasn't outlandish that Piers had attached himself at the hip to the older man within the few short weeks of just having met him, but after the unforeseen promotion so early into his career, Piers never let him go. It was a hand on his shoulder, squeezing his captain for attention in some direction or another, or throwing an arm out to stop him from running into something. Piers protected Chris' person like a china doll, and sometimes it made Chris laugh, other times it turned his face the color of a cardinal's breast, particularly whenever Piers would throw his weight into him and hold their bodies together briefly when Marco would set off an explosive, or a stray grenade came through. After the third time that had happened, Chris' eyes lingered too long on him. The moment the grenade had come tumbling through the house, Piers threw his weight and immediately Chris had reversed their rolls, crushing his weight against Piers with their bodies locked together, face to face with each other just staring despite the blast. It had been the first time Piers dared to touch Chris in any manner other than professional, letting his hands stray to his captain's waist, giving a short tug to the utility belt at his hip before nodding that it was all clear. He knew it wasn't just him that was feeling the magnetic tug that drew them together. Chris was his safety net, always there in case something threatened his person, and Piers was Chris.' They worked in tandem, like cogs meshed together.

Learning hand to hand had been fun. It was unexpected that the ace sniper would be able to fight would also be versed in tactical hand to hand, but they didn't know he had a commando teaching him for the last two years before this. Bets would go wild when they would practice because though the captain was obviously larger, stronger, and over all a better brawler, Piers was swift and defensive. He locked Chris into a hold the first time they met and refused to let him go until he'd tapped out, from then on it was all hands on. Captain versus second whenever they had the chance, and Piers intentionally made sure that his hands strayed intentionally, getting opportunities to actually feel the strength of that amazing build. It made Chris fumble the first time, but after that he relished in it, anticipating Piers smaller gestures that went unseen by their comrades. Piers never feigned innocence, and there were times that Chris actually did the same, pinning Piers' taut arms across his chest and almost crushing him in a bear hug, but taking his dear sweet time to take in the scent of his smaller partner. Of course that hadn't had anything on the discomfort he'd felt when the sniper had aced Chris so fast that he'd swept his legs and laid him out flat on his back, straddling his hips when he pinned him, rocking his hips suggestively into him. Chris disappeared after that, like the times before it.

With the lavished attention that he had been receiving, it wasn't hard for him to revert back to himself. It felt so good to be part of something good, that he wasn't horrified at being himself again. The men in the unit called it cocky and self assured, but Chris' term for it was brazen. He gave him command of the unit in his absence, over their training, over everything. Ms. Valentine didn't look highly on it, she didn't like Piers, and it was understandable, because the feeling was mutual. She watched him like a hawk, even though his eagle eyes told him why, and refused to relent on telling the captain that he shouldn't have a rookie for a partner. As though it was her choice to make... There had been some comments thrown around when she would come to speak with Redfield that it was because they'd been in a prior relationship, but that just made the younger ace laugh. The looks Chris started giving him ever since he put a pen in his mouth out of habit had him fairly sure that the older man wouldn't have dated Jill Valentine if she was naked. Chris got more of a rise from watching Piers give his bullets a blowjob, or teasingly stroke his rifle than talking with Jill. Of course he had a tendency to draw attention for it. Probably why those fingers had swept into his moist mouth earlier that day, stealing the away the bullet he'd sucked on until every man's face was red as beats. He didn't want their attention, he wanted Chris' and he got it. That gruff, angry visage painted him a very vivid picture of what was in store for him if he continued to distract the team, but that had nothing on the clear reaction it had had on Chris through his tactical pants.

Numbly, he danced the round until tucking it away beside the tiny bedside table, rolling onto his side and smiling to himself as the men in the barracks heavy breathing filled the camp. This was his place. A perfect place. If he'd been patient, if he hadn't let the glamor of the solo life take him, this would have been his only life, and he wouldn't be up like this right now. He'd have been catching Chris' mouth with his own back there in his office and finishing the job he'd started. He wanted nothing more than for them to be together. Chris was everything he'd ever wanted in a person. He was not only the exact opposite of Wesker, but he was the literally everything to Piers. He was brave and head strong, he was a man of action. He was everything Piers looked up to, that he wanted to look up at while they ravaged each other and made all these thoughts disappear. Thinking about it there were still the residual feelings of filth that clung to him; with the deaths of all those men haunting him. People were wrong when they said it was the faces that haunted you. As a sniper, Piers ruined faces for a living, blew the heads clean off. No it was their names that still danced in his mind, almost so much that he could read the list off starting from the first man he'd put down. Chris would never want him like that. More often than not it was Jack and Albert that plagued his dreams at night. They were the reason he knew he couldn't act on how he felt. He couldn't put Chris in that position, not unless Chris was the one to start this. From the moment his eyes opened in the morning, up to the very second they closed his thoughts remained on the B.S.A.A., their mission, the good things he was doing, and Chris... But once the doors closed and his eyes lulled shut, it was Jack laughing at him in that rasping bass voice, choking him with smoke from those cigarettes he'd shared and burying a knife in his spine while Wesker found that sweet spot with his hand clutching at the arm he'd stitched up the first time he'd gotten hurt. He never pretended to think that that action had been anything more than another power trip, the reminder that in that position things could always have been much worse, and would have been unless the younger man answered and did all things as he was commanded. He was a puppet on strings and Wesker was the master. Always laughing with that shark like grin in his ear reminding him that Chris would never have him knowing all those people he'd killed, all the things he'd done. He would beat him to death with his own hands and Wesker would watch, feeding him to the mutated dogs that he'd seen in the field. And then he'd wake up, and he'd seek out his captain, and struggle through another day to make himself better, make himself worth all this.

Still... he couldn't help but giggle at the redness on Chris' face when he'd walked in on him. He knew the reason Chris didn't want him there. It wasn't just the smell of his Captain's sweat, or the stammering he did, but Piers just reaffirmed it when he reached out for him and the older man all but jerked from his own skin to avoid Piers' grazing touch. It made him smirk happily, letting the coolness of the pillow jerk at his want for sleep, but he wasn't ready just yet to give over his captain for Jack's maliciousness. The older man had been looking at him so conflicted. Piers had wanted nothing more than to climb in his lap when he mentioned him being kinky and let him put that straining hard on between his pouted lips and show him what kinky was all about. In actuality Piers wasn't really kinky at all. Yeah, he liked putting things in his mouth, it was an oral fixation he had, and Krauser learned that quickly enough that he would do basically anything for it, but it wasn't a kink just a fix. The idea that Chris phrased it that way though was the lead on he liked from the older man, he liked the idea that Chris thought about him that way. He had cast the dice, hit on him endlessly, basically all but said that he'd have him, but Piers wasn't willing to cross the line with his captain. If the hero of Raccoon City wasn't ready to be involved, or had reserves about it, then Piers didn't want it either. He had enough control to know what happened when he lost sight of things. He'd wound up getting himself caught up with Umbrella. No he'd take his time. If Chris and Piers were going to do anything, Chris had to start it, because in the end this could all only go one way. He was going to have to tell him eventually, and if they were together he wanted it to be because Chris made that choice and didn't regret it when the end came. No for now it was a fun little game they played with each other, and nothing more.

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**A word of advice, I think this is the nicest this story will be from now on...**


	9. Chapter 9

**Be aware this starts out abrupt.**

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This wasn't right. There was nothing right about this. Piers jerked his head to the side, feeling the tough confines of a zip tie plastic gnawing into his wrists and the absence of his gunner's gloves. His ankles were trapped too, locked in place in a sitting position that he was slouched into, head lulled forward while he wiggled each finger and jerked confined limbs until there was certainty there was no escape. Hazel oculars blinked with unparalleled rapidity, seeking light,some purchase of vision but without reprieve. Instead, he was greeted with the darkness; darkness that had such an impending weight on his chest that Piers wasn't altogether certain he hadn't died. Purgatory. Was this what it felt like having your life stolen from you? He was starting to hope for death. There was only one thing this could have been and he'd known since the day he walked out with that rifle over his shoulder that it would come back to haunt him. They'd been on a solo mission. Just his captain, and him. Easy snatch and grab and the only reason Piers was there was because he had those hazel oculars that eagle's envied, capable of calling the most minute details into question. He was invaluable. He'd made himself invaluable. But They couldn't have known that, it was a simple snatch and grab, so simple. They should have been in, out, but for all holy on the cross, Piers' couldn't remember the name on the paper, the face in his scope. Just Chris' nod as he turned to face him and then nothing. So the darkness continued, and minutes, seconds, years, hours, days, passed along in succession; disorientation of unconsciousness enveloping every sense as cool wetness of a thick stinging fluid ran down his sweat soaked temple. From how light headed he'd been, the sniper could only guess he'd been struck with a side arm. Pistol whipped. He didn't remember the strike. Just Chris' nod, and that was it. Time kept ticking by, jerking and struggling in this endless darkness while soreness melted into stiffening joints. Shoulder cracked at every attempt at straightening that young spine, hunched like a candy cane in the chair, wincing in pain. "Damn it." Melodic tenor was now hoarse crackling mockery of what it once was, a reminder of how long there had been no water or food. Or how long he'd been screaming... Had he been screaming?

There was no sound in this world. This half Hell. Just darkness that refused to relent him back into the land of the living with numbness setting in deliciously slow. Starting at his fingers... Dexterous nimble fingers that were lithe and perfectly talented in their own field, trained for one particular purpose. To squeeze the trigger he'd taken as a lover, coercing and coaxing sweet pleasure from her to dismantle the faces of those bioterrorist monsters. He was suppose to be there to guide Chris, walk him right in to the facility without trouble. They knew the blueprints, the targets. The name of every single meat bag inside with a name tag. Simple snatch and grab. What had happened? Squeezing both hands into swollen fists, the lances of pain snaked up into his wrist, visions flashing through his head. Always darkness, but rough, calloused hands, thick and powerful, pulling and clenching that hand down on a cold flat sheet of steel, a table, struggling with one another to free himself while that hand guided his down to the table and pinned it there, pressure lodging in his wrist just before the blow. Crushing hammer claws wedging into his hand, fingers, prying them with berating strength while there was muted laughter in his head, one he couldn't quite make out, over his own higher pitched screams, tears welling in his eyes while the head of the hammer came down again, beating his right index finger into pieces, crushing the others of his right hand up to the pinkie, the steel replaced by those meaty warm hands made of stone, twisting the pointer finger and all its flayed skin out of location and grinding its bits together. He'd screamed... It was his trigger finger, swollen and numb at the joints, sticky moist blood and layers of peeled back skin almost exposing mangled bone to air, pulling more forlorn moans from his chest so long as he didn't move them. When they twitched it felt like his hand was a in a bag of glass shards, fighting a yelp of pain. Shifting the numbness joined at his wrist. There was the zip tie holding them fast together, blood flow restricted but it didn't save him from feeling the tiny hurts that bruising fingers had wrenched when the torturer dislocated the wrist as well. Damn it, his entire arm was a wreck... his shooting arm. Right shoulder yawned with pain after another shift, whimpering unbidden when he fought the pull of unconsciousness, tugging at his eyelids and each sense, the encompassing darkness, not just physically but mentally calling him back to safety where his world wasn't filled with hurt.

More months..., years, seconds.

A splash of freezing liquid smothered shock into reality. Water soaking through to the bone, waking all the hurts, all the blood to pour down his drenched body. The door shut with a resounding bang, willing ears to shudder with ringing from blood, shock, horror, the echos climbing up the walls at the emptiness but for Piers' body in this single chair. The saturated cloth covering his face clung ruthlessly to his face, bracing pressure behind his eyes as it clung savagely to his face, all his raw and chaffed joints complaining. Coldness was starting to seep in under Piers' flesh, goosebumps rising from the frigid water, well below freezing. Tanned darker skin, shivered subconsciously while fighting off the draft that filled the room, chilling the bones and his wound screaming anew. His rigging was missing, legs chilled and the fabric loose, now clinging to well toned thighs and calves, meaning he had been relieved of his hardware. No guns, obviously, no rigging, magazines.. a shift of a constrained ankle and the theory that his single combat knife was gone as well. As were his boots. The floor was cold, and covered in frozen wet. When had they taken his boots? Had he been without them since the beginning? The cold was creeping into injuries, making them throb slowly at first then quicker as his pulse began to rise, thundering in his chest as fear gripped him, struggling to remember every little detail. Where was his captain? Where was Chris!? They'd been in South Korea. They had a pact with the local government, snatch and grab, get out with him and never report the man taken so they could reestablish a proper government, while they extracted information on the black market viruses they'd intended on releasing. Where was he? His chest was pricked cold, and suddenly realization that his B.S.A.A. uniform had been stripped off his torso came to light. He was shirtless, and had been for some time, he could remember trace touches, and feelings... Fingers ripped and pried off each patch, tearing fabric into pieces as the S.O.U. badge was seamlessly snatched from it's loving place on his arm, fabric arching his body in the iron seat, jerking him every which direction as those things which he held most precious, as his identity was stolen off his person, torn away piece by piece. Magazines, the spent rifle round in his flak jacket pocket clattering to the ground. The noise roared through his ears, knives prying the tactical vest off his ribcage, carelessly nicking each rib, purposefully drawing cold steel with the flat side of the blade along him. Teasing his body the blade mapped him; over each curvature and contour of muscle, from his taut abs up and tapping forcefully against the smooth plains of his pectorals, nicking a cold nub with the tip of the blade before moving on to slide lethargically down his spine. It was still there, rested at the small of his back, under the waistline of his wet fatigues... pinned through the back to the seat. The seat was made of... wood? Damn it... He had to get out of here.

More minutes, more darkness, more unconsciousness taking over.

Piers' mouth tasted of thick dry cotton., licking dry and cracked full tiers, that curled down at the corners. There was blood coating those lips. Tangy, iron blood as a spit slathered tongue trailed over the sensitive skin, tingling under each little droplet of saliva as they were swallowed into the dryness, plumping them instantly with each swallow and languid suckling of the tiered flesh, finally moistening the splitting flesh. Blood though... thick drying blood that now invaded his senses, the scent of metal coiling into his nostrils; as a humid warmth ran over each tooth, feeling them out to make certain he still had them all. He wasn't missing any teeth, but there was a slice in his tongue. Long and down the center, gushing now that he'd moved it and stinging a hundred times more horrible than a paper-cut... from the knife. They put it in his mouth. Forced his head back with mulish strength, compelling those lips to part until silver steel moved into place, urging Piers' to lap at the sharp hair cutting length. Pushing it until he was choking on his own blood, withdrawn again only to leave a fountain of blood inside his mouth, leaving his tongue a ruin of slices. It was a thick glob in his mouth, working and rolling it along with saliva until there was enough to splat on the ground in loud plop, measuring the distance it took for it to hit the ground. Still no sounds but his own breathing... Please let his captain be alright. He could take this, he knew someday he'd have to, but Chris... what would they do to him? His tongue felt numb in his mouth, useless, like a slab of flesh half severed even though he could move it, until he'd split all the healing it had done in however long oblivion had provided, blood gushing over his lower tier and dribbling down his smooth chin.

More senselessness, more nothing... more... That wasn't nothing. Piers snapped his head to the side, inhaling with a deep breath as smoke coiled like snakes into his mouth and nose, before choking out a cough, instantly recalling the small. An abrasive chuckle followed that exasperated attempt at scent, overtaking every sense and filling the room as it got louder, emanating from a chuckle to a raucous laughter, bouncing off the cold metal and concrete. A rumbling bass filling ear canals as a heated warmth played a grazing touch across those pouted tiers, teasing the soft tissue with each pass before nestling between his lips, familiar to the touch and scent. "Take it in kid, it's the last one you'll have for a long while." Piers dragged off the cigarette like a lifeline. Smokey nicotine filling battered, tormented senses along with that gravely roar of a voice. Jack. He'd know the laugh anywhere. Marlboro reds, always the same. How'd he known it would have been Krauser to be the one to finally come for him. He should have known it from the knife. "Go ahead, take one more..." Piers wasn't reluctant to do it, sucking in another toxic breath that teased aching lungs with poison while he felt the metal at his back pulled away, the knife wrenching loudly and jarring his entire person before rough calloused fingers, pulled away the cigarette, a snort of a breath signalling the torturer's own puff off that addictive substance, the sound of it being flicked against the wall attesting to the size of the room. Jack's rough body language speaking passed the sight barrier as he sucked in another breath before the sound of a lighter flicking on and another huff of smoke met damaged lungs. "You know when Wesker told me he was going to let you go... I almost believed him. What's it been boy, two years?" The lighter's heat scorched down as it came careening, and held against his forearm, burning and smearing flesh, the sudden assault on his senses causing the younger man to hide a yelp, gritting and clenching his jaw as tightly as possible, likely to do damage with the attempt at stifling pain while the lighter was again pocketed with a ragged smokey laugh.

"One year, eleven months... last I checked Jack." Piers voice was a rasp, sweat sliding and seeping into the cloth covering his eyes. He was following thundering steps of shuddering combat boots on the solid concrete floor, plodding in a semi circle around the front of him, Piers' head canted to the side to follow the sound of those steps until taking in quick short lived breathes as the knife pulled up under his chin. Making a sharp inhale as massive lungs breathed out smoke over young features, only inches from the blindfold that covered his features, Piers winced, baring his teeth. The smell the tobacco and spit mingled in Jack's mouth huffing over his youthful countenance , and all the gun powder and mayhem his body reeked with. Stale blood and vomit on his usually camouflaged covered chest. Even without seeing him, Piers could see him, all hunched over like a lion mixing a purred growl with every breath while put all his weight on Piers' thigh with one giant clawing hand, squeezing the lithe muscled body passed the point of discomfort and melding into damaging tissue beneath, thumb ultimately close to his inner thigh, digging in like a prize, he wouldn't let go of, rubbing in rough clockwise circles while the rough fabric rubbed raw on the inside of his thigh. "What did you do to Chris, Jack?"

"Chris huh? Not... _captain_ Redfield? Well I'm only in charge of getting you all loose tongued boyscout,... so how about me and you have ourselves a little chat? I'll be the one asking the questions." The hand massaging his groin, shifted, giving a quick vicious squeeze to Piers' knee before fleeting. A right hook like a monster impaled into bare abs, hurtling with tremendous force to barrel in again and again until there was a sickening snap that resounded within his lungs casket. Rough palms grasping the side of Piers' gasping face and jerking his head back, seizing his face with digging fingertips splayed out, one shoving into Piers' mouth, hooking into his cheek like a fish hook, while the knife in the other hand moved from his neck like a snake over his skin, drawing lines until he reached the waistline of beige and grey mottled fatigues, hooking under the belt. "Start talking pretty boy... or not... it's your choice. We've got all day together. Did you tell your captain about serving for Umbrella?" Twisting, the knife it tugged the last pieces of high class utility belting. "How about all the men you killed, does he know their names? Faces?" Ashes from the cancerous stick hanging between Jack's lips drifted off the red cherry end, falling intentionally against Piers' fuller softer mouth. "Do you whimper for him like the bitch you are when you're hiding your tail between your legs in the field, hoping we won't see what a scared little shit you are? Thought you were pulling a fast one huh," The belt snapped in two, knife slicing it with ease, "joining up with Redfield. You know Wesker had his eye on you the entire time... Knew damn well what you'd do. Got to say, you didn't disappoint." The knife nipped Piers flesh, his lower stomach sucking in as he took a deeper breath, grimacing while Krauser's fingers wedged deeper, his pointer shoving against the fabric that pushed into his eye socket, smearing thick coagulated blood into his hairline. "Not such a hotshot any more, are ya? How's that trigger finger?!" Krauser all but roared the words, unexpected force shoving him over backward, the entire chair falling and crushing the damaged hand beneath his weight and the chair's, crushing his at least one if not both wrists, a howl of tenor pain cutting the air in duet with bass hoarse laughter... unconsciousness threatening the fridges of his brain. Meaty fingers in his tawny brown hair, jerked his face around, until Jack's hot breath was humidly steaming across Piers' face, snarling, a moist tongue flicking against his soft cheek. "Now you know kid. Who you fucked with."

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**Errr... sorry Piers? Didn't mean to completely trash you, but wait... yes I did. Sorry for the sudden rush, but I had the inkling for some violence, and Jack is so good for that. I mean like... super great for violence. **

**Sorry for the huge time it took for me to get back to this one, but I've got tons of fics that are ongoing. Don't like making anyone worried I'm not going to finish but I promise no matter how long it takes me to do things, or no matter how many fics. I am very OCD. When I start I have to finish. So have no fear when I disappear like that!  
**

**For those of you are the precog type, yes there's a reason Jack is the one with Piers, because we all know who is with Chris...  
**


	10. Chapter 10

Dark brown eyes shifted open groggily, lopsided and unable to truly focus as light filtered passed lashes until consciousness finally rooted deep. Incandescent glow came flooding in from behind then disappeared, and luminescence from every corner of vision as square screens blurred hazily before concussed oculars, retinas burning and confusing in a jumbled mess of images. Muscled wrists, thick as tree branches were drawn back behind him, broad shoulder muscles tensing to give a jerk only to come up with the feeling of metal barbs rather than easily dispatched restraints. Someone knew better than to use handcuffs; those he could have destroyed within seconds. Instead there were barbed metal cords chewing on his forearms, the legs too, bound all the way up his calf, not just at the ankle, all made to ensure one Chris Redfield didn't muster the strength from his vast and muscled personage to tear free. Any average human couldn't have freed themselves the first time... this had been the third attempt to keep him detained, at least from what he recalled. Darkness was steadily blinked back, each clench shut of the eyes sending sparks dancing behind his lids like a a sparkler show before they systematically dissipated until none were left behind, his vision clearing up completely, while the dizziness wore off. They were on mission. Snatch and grab. Damn thing must have been a complete set up because this wasn't at all part of the plan, this kind of structure didn't even exist inside the building they'd been at. Those scientists were decoys for a real target, someone wanted to draw them out. Didn't take a genius to figure out who. There was only one that would ever dare a direct assault on his person or intentionally go after the highest ranked anti-terrorism group in the U.S.A.. Took a lot guts for Wesker to pull shit like this... he'd never gone out of his way to pull off that kind of elaborate scheme just to bring in Chris, or maybe he was just tired of all those attempts on world 'saturation' that he'd finally given in and taken the war directly to the source. Even B.S.A.A.'s intel officers had gone through the information from top to bottom for almost a full week before they were sent out to collect, and even then they had taken all the necessary precautions required it had come up with no red flags at all and they had support from H.Q. the entire time. But then there was that all too familiar burn in his lower jaw, the fragmenting in his ribs, the yawning pain inside his lower abdomen, and that battered ache that throbbed inside his own skin all the way down his back. Yes all the routine places that Wesker liked putting the strain on.

Blinking some more, Chris let his straining eyes settle on the monitors. They were obviously put there for his 'benefit' so why not pull what information he could? Three of them, each one rested on a separate rolling cart attached by thick black cables to the SAT boxes, each one different for each set but they all had different feeds of the _same_ room, seemingly on repeat. Vision still blurred from the knock to the head, it took only a few seconds for it to come back to him that the mission hadn't been alone. That he wasn't the only one compromised. "PIERS!" Chris' voice resonated dead inside the room, cement walls that showed no door and held no echo. The door must have been one located behind him, not that he could turn his head because that too was being held in place by some kind of strap around his neck, choking off his holler and managing his head from turning full range from side to side. Albert wanted him to watch this, to see what was going to happen and not be able to turn away. His voice wasn't carrying, and it wasn't reaching out to who he needed it to; to the man slumped forward in each frame. They were cheap video, as cheap as Albert Wesker allowed them to be, meaning just clear enough to make out the discernible features, and not good enough that you didn't have to strain to view the action. The surveillance cameras were propped in the ceiling looking down on his partner from three different angles.

The room was small maybe twenty by ten, a single metal table long enough for a body, propped in front of his partner, close enough to touch if he wasn't tied down. In the left monitor there was a hammer, in the second monitor to his right (stilled), a hunting knife that resembled a combat commando's, and in the third which was dead center there was nothing, the room was empty apart from Piers' form. Squinting his eyes, Chris caught the subtle movements that indicated his partner's breathing on the left, shallow and barely there. He was soaked through and it was like watching a progression; Full gear on the right; the next drenched, and then the center stripped down to nothing but his fatigues. No audio. "Wesker! Let him go! He's got nothing to do with this!" Every frame had all the more damage, all the more destruction of his partner's body. Large brown eyes widened, watching the hulk of a commando in Piers' room enter as if on command, stepping up behind the soldier watching mouths move, Piers' lips purse a refusal to speak before the fight started. Piers fought, as hard as a man being bound and sense deprived could. He did good, a fist drawing cross blind, but it was caught; body jerked fiercely against his bonds until that single freed hand was slammed down on the table. Chris swallowed, eyes glued to the screen, flicking over the scene before him hoping and searching for some kind of confidence that Piers was alright; chocolate color eyes caught instantly on the mass of twisted metal raised, shouting out to fall on the deaf ears of his own cement walls as the hammer claws came down. Fingers mauled, skin torn apart, his wrist, knuckles. Chris couldn't hear the scream, but he saw it,. Lips parted, head thrown back, trying to pull away from the pain that rippled up his arm like fire, hazel eyes covered but no doubt cinched shut avoiding looking as the claws came down again, gasping haggard moans. His own body pitched, thrashing as it continued on his own voice giving word to Piers' cry out. "WESKER! I'm gonna kill you!"

"I had wondered how long it would take before you watched my little movie, Chris. I must say... Its a riveting view." Aristocratic melodrama lifted from behind Chris' spine, somewhere in the darkness of the room. Stepping around the side of him, customized sculpted shades covering vermilion glowing eyes, played mirrors of the video playing before them. "Please. Keep watching... It gets better." That shark like grin with lips pulled back to reveal teeth charmed over jawline and narrowed already naturally slim eyes. Beguiled hands slipped through perfectly cropped gold hair, the few single strands that strayed forward pushed back with their brothers while attention was still strayed from his captive, and instead marked each monitor. "Krauser has such a way with strays, I thought it was only fitting I allowed him the opportunity to take his pound of flesh." A scoff dragged from the deeper parts of Wesker's chest, an ever slight shake of the head while Chris grit his teeth, growling like a caged animal; watching all the while as Piers' arm was snapped out of position, each bullish move forcing more silent screams from his partner. "Tell me Chris, how long did it take before he snaked his way into bed with the B.S.A.A.? I can't imagine it took very long. A month... two? After all... you do make a habit out of getting close to your partners. Jill must have been so disappointed when you replaced her with my little pet."

"Damn you Wesker, what the hell do you want from me!?"

"Always about you, isn't it Chris. I had wondered how long it would take for you to get attached to the sniper, he certainly is... invigorating. You never disappointed me."

As soon as the words clipped, the monitor skipped back again, returning to its initial frame where Chris had first viewed it, the screen frozen; the one on the right coming to life. The damage was already done, that that he had had to view as his fingers dripped a pool of blood on the ground behind his back. "What the hell are you talking about Wesker, leave Piers out of this?!" Chris yanked against his bonds, metal spines digging viciously into his flesh, tearing and scoring his arm; the pain never stopping the captain's thrashing. "He's got nothing to do with you, stop playing these games and just tell me what you want!" The frames in the 'movie' before him skipped forward, knives there for biting into his partner, tormenting his skin and defacing his usually pristine uniform, cleaving free each patch one at a time, starting with the S.O.U. that he had been so proud to earn. "WESKER STOP THIS!" The mangled hand was shaking and the body it was attached to still jerked against the bonds, despite being blindfolded and mauled from the shoulder down. It was evidently out of place from how his partner was favoring his other side, but it didn't matter, he was still fighting back. He wasn't alone long. Grim and merciless, the mercenary returned, thundering within. The knife on the table was the give away. "Fight back Piers." How could he fight though, his gunner's hand was mutilated, and the rest of him was strapped in a fashion similar to Chris. This was just torture for torture' sake. It was systematic too, started at the bottom and worked his way up. They teach you that in the force. Always start at the bottom because the more vital organs will bleed out faster. And the closer to one's head the more difficult it is for them to concentrate on the pain.

Wriggling in his bonds, the captain felt the barbs in his flesh dig deeper, sink into muscles and tear, they were snakes with huge teeth clenching around his forearms; even if he was in pain he couldn't stop trying. He couldn't let this happen to Piers. Wesker ruined every one of his partners in some way or another, he refused to let it happen to this one. The kid was so young, so full of life. He'd gotten too close to him over the last two years that at this point they could finish each other's sentences. He couldn't function properly with him, not the way he should have. It was more than just field partnering too, Piers took his job seriously and it turned into something more than just professionally based concern. They'd both seen it as it manifested. All the drinking, Piers had caught up on that too and he'd helped him, urged him through it, acted the part of a captain with the team even though he wasn't one so that his real captain could push through. They were a two man wrecking crew capable of taking on the entire world. Piers was a force to be considered, a fully capable man. And it never helped that they had as much tension between them as two magnets that want to cling to one another but always repel. Once he was done with the patches, the knife took the shirt first, wrenching him around in his bonds until tan flesh of that lithe muscled chest was completely exposed. Chris winced watching the blood. Something graced those lips, jaw clenched so tightly trying to fight the pain of the knife dancing down to his naval. Whatever it was he'd spat out at the man was obviously a sore spot, because instantly it jumped to his throat, hands in brown hair and yanking his head back, cramming it tip first into his mouth, cutting pouted lips, blood gliding from the corners of those tiers gagging on the amount of sanguine fluid building up there. There was no way to watch this, no way Chris could do allow this to continue. He was being forced to swallow his own blood, gag on it, while the knife finally withdrew along with Chris' ability to keep silent as the knife in hand dashed against the side of Piers' temple. "DAMN IT WESKER STOP THIS NOW!

"Too late for that Chris. These are just the replays... If you'd like to see what happens next," The screens jumped again, Piers body laid out backward over a table, blindfold still in place. His right arm looked hideous; skin torn and ripped, bones of his knuckles showing, dislocated joint stretched out and to the side; all parts of him strapped down like one of Wesker's experiments. Chris had never sought out Piers, not intentionally, but they were as intimate as partners could be without ever having truly done anything that crossed the boundaries set to them by regulations. He'd never seen or thought to see Piers in any fashion but soldier, now all he could see was victim. His admired, waiting for him to help him. Lean chest was a mess of blood pooling in the grooves of his muscled torso and slashes that contrasted his tan skin; legs dangling over the end of the table at the knee. He was unconscious, his tormentor circling him mouth moving while he strut, spinning that knife against the tip of his thumb, picking things out form under his nail. "I can't imagine all the thoughts going through his pretty little head right now... I'm sure he's regretting having never told you about our past." Krauser's knife nibbled at the inside of Piers' thigh, sliding it up between his legs and tearing open the fabric along his inner leg soaking with the blood from malicious slashes causing the sniper to shirk into consciousness, trying not show just how much pain he was in. "He was always such a good boy, so _naive. _A pity he turned on me." Chris was wincing at every slice, growling in his throat. "I just wanted you to know Chris. I wanted you to _see_ what he would go through for you. To see just how far it takes until he breaks, just for you. So we have a game Chris-

"Fuck you Wesker, I swear I'm going to beat you to death, let him go goddamnit!"

The captain yanked and jerked, icy cold leather gloves sliding over his massive shoulder like a snake, sickeningly coy, gripping with the threat of death behind them. "You should hear the rules before you start fighting Chris." The grip and creak of fine leather snared into hard muscles filled the aptain's ears, watching 'Krauser' pull up a shiny metal casing, toying with it in front of covered eyes, too close to his partner's face for his liking. Slow methodical steps brought his own assailant around the front, looking down that straight nose into vengeful brown still unable to meet those orange hued oculars behind their shroud. "Its very simple, so try not to muck it up like everything else you've done over these last few years. Agent Nivans is going to be my guest Chris. I'm going to make him answer for every little thing he's ever done, and you," Leather seized stubble unshaven jaw, wrenching his head upward until their faces were mere inches apart, leaning ever closer until they were essentially touching; the scent of cool mist mingling with sweat and blood that radiated off his captive. "You are going to sit here. Krauser was merely... preparing him, for what he truly deserves Chris. What he truly has deserved for getting himself involved with your ilk. We'll see how long he'll hold out." They were a mirror opposite of one another, staring into one another while darkened shades slid down, revealing those cat like eyes, penetrating Chris like a knife to his stomach where Wesker's free hand rested, brushing the shirt covering his abdomen with the back of his knuckles. "They _always_ break. You're job, Special Operates _Captain_... is simple." Jerking upright and releasing Chris, his megalomaniac of a captor circled around the back side of his casualty one more time, revealing the scene before him; where the blond fiend systematically was blowing smoke over youthful features, teasing his lips with the .50 caliber bullet between his knuckles every so often which had his sniper recoiling at the deed. "You will decide his fate. You will tell me Chris. Either you can forgive him his faults, _or_...

"Let him go Wesker... you've got me, what the hell is the point of all this."

"You'll see Christopher, you'll see..." Always pristine Teflon jacket swept away to the back of the room, then stopped, only the sounds of boots to go on as Chris tore his own battered arms just in an attempt to get free or twist in the seating, spouting off swears and ignoring the satin drops starting to pour down bulging forearms. A controller withdrawn, pointed threateningly at the sets of monitors. "When this is done Chris, I want you to hear his voice, confessing to everything he's done... to the treason he committed... and I want him to hear you cast him aside. That when you look at his face and feel the betrayal, that you will know it was me who ruined him." There was a sharp click and the room filled with hoarse tenor, growling respite at the man over him as layers of rigging was torn away, utility equipment thrown asunder, along with the click of those heels fleeting toward the door. "Oh and one more thing Christopher. I'll make sure its me, the first time. Since you never had the gull to do it yourself."

"WESKER!"

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**DUNDUNDUN**


	11. Chapter 11

Boot heels. Heavy rubber methodically..., dangerously..., measured, and imposing; flooded and bounced from each sterilized, light glistening wall. The sound was hollow, like his soul. This sound proof tunnel muted all noises of torment and vindication from those separated within each chamber that lie beyond the cement walls and metal hinged, sealed bulkheads. Black combat boots moved without impair of questioned judgement or fear, from a man who would never second guess his own choices. Chris Redfield was a life long enemy, and before that a questionable member of S.T.A.R.S. that he had never much held respect for. As the single most pester-some man who ever breached a womb, he had only become further difficulty for Wesker when that foul creature continued to defy him and produced, wit his lovely Ms. Jill Valentine, the B.S.A.A. A branch of the government's military with the soul purpose of being obstacles which needed to be destroyed. And now? The Special Operations Unit. Leather creaked in a tightly clasped fist, poised behind a staunch posture and clutched with the other hand, attempting to maintain proper disposition. It was true that Christopher Redfield was the single most useless human being on the planet, but he was also the single man who had ever braved to spurn Albert Wesker's plans. He was infectious. A man who required to be snuffed out or risk others rising against him. That had been made clear when this moment came to rise.

Piers Nivans was a golden child within the confine of the United States military. His abilities were perfectly suited for the needs of this organization, and potentially he had been everything required for the position that he was groomed for. There was a single flaw to a man as dedicated and sharp as that one. He was volatile. He was corrupted to leave them because of motivation of a man loathed among them. Once again Chris Redfield had made his way into thwarting his efforts by simply existing. Long striding legs, broken up in sound by the swish of leather behind firm calves, continued their lengthened pace whilst considering their position. He had had that boy in his hands two years before. Closer they crept toward revealing what had been the true purpose of this life's ambition, global saturation, but he hadn't been ready. There were reasons he placed the boy with Jack Krauser for the better portion of his impressively short career. Jack was a professional. He was cold, sharp, and knew the rules of engagement. Piers had taken to him much quicker than expected, which had been the intention. Every boy needs a role model. To judge him, he'd wanted to know how corrupt this young man had really been. Young and stupid enough to fall into the spider's web, but slick and sharp enough to behead the captor. He was more like Redfield than Wesker cared to admit.

It had been Chris he had wanted. Foolish man. He had the opportunity to join greatness and turned his back on it. That captain could have been the only asset he required, but instead he wanted this same impurity that plagued mankind to continue. Some misguided moral compass directed Chris Redfield, pushing him toward belief that it was Wesker that was the true enemy. Man kind was the enemy. A plague on this world that he would snuff out. He was a god. Redfield had had the chance to join this legacy. It was his own demise for having turned down that single chance at command. The arrogant captain should have been extinguished a decade ago, however it was Albert Wesker's decision to allow his furthered existence for singularly selfish reasons.A past life was better remembered in the flesh, than demolished completely. A reminder of the weaker man he'd been and he weak choices he'd made. Chris Redfield was the single most distracting reminder of what he wished to destroy. Such a foolish man, like the rest of humanity he fought to protect. Never had he anticipated however, that his own men would have begun to see this defiance against him as something to be... inspiring. It had begun with Ada Wong. Her actions dictated by emotions rather than his own well established commands, and though it was for a man named Leon Kennedy, it was the seed that was planted by that hulk of an inbred. Piers Nivans had not been the first. But he would be the last. He would eradicate two flightless birds with one stone.

Piers had become Chris' downfall. It had been clear the day Redfield admitted Nivans into the sacred S.O.U. that he held so close to himself, that there was no need to retrieve his little Trojan horse until the end. Chris had an innate ability to become attached to his partners, in a way he recalled himself because of his simple minded attempt to become 'close' with the leader of S.T.A.R.S. back when it had been himself that led their way. Redfield clung like a puppy, and Nivans was just naive, just sweet enough to believe that he was free. That bravado..., lavished affection. It had the desired effect. Leather impeded the touch of cool metal when one hand came forward and wrapped about the handle of the steel door that separated him from the pray that would be that would crush the spirit of his long term rival.

Hinges screamed when the doorway gave freedom to its blockade, admitting within the staunch aristocrat who had waited far too long to take his vengeance upon these ants. Jack was busy carving a deep gash down the center of that body which seemed to maintain an impressive resilience. "Leave us Krauser..." There was a grunt, raspy and perverse while the scarred up blond removed himself from he lean body he'd been pressuring with his own. Jack was a fetishist. The knife was his symbol of how deeply he could penetrate and own human begins, gender non-discriminant. He listened to orders though. The knife was sheathed and the room vacated with a heavy thud as the door was closed hastily behind, leaving only the queen and pawn. A fact that most evidently did not go lost on the fledgeling soldier. Such a boyish countenance, it was no wonder that Chris had been so reckless for him. Albert had made a similar mistake. It would not happen again.

"Where's Chris, Wesker?!"

"I see your senses haven't gone to a complete waste." Tied up like and splayed out and still the little fighter. A younger version of his captain. And played so easily to his hand. "Your captain remains... unharmed agent Nivans. If that is of course how you would like yourself to be addressed? I recall you preferring a _different_ title under my employ." Only Wesker knew that within another room that this conversation was being flooded into senses of his combative adversary. Right now, Chris was questioning why this renegade leader of justice would have traded in his loyalties for this, but he would understand. Soon enough Chris would see. "I see Krauser has done well to entertain you whilst I visited our mutual friend. I do hope he hasn't bled the fight from you, but then... you always had a special spark for the dramatic." The words made the body before him, deprived of sight, arch off the table his form had been strapped to, clanging as his spine returned to its glistening surface with a growl. "You prove my point." Uniform, thuds of rubber on cement filled the room, responsively shifting of the body on the table moving in opposed directions to his steps until long fingers tore away the blanketing darkness from in front of sharp hazel oculars which became pinpoint at the invading light, pupils contracting until fluttering lids and responsive jerks of that well bound body parallel with natural reaction, stilled enough to meet the lens covered vermillion. "Much better. Its been _too_ long, _agent_ Nivans."

"Not long enough Wesker. What did you do with Chris?! I swear as soon as I get-

"I will save you the potential chagrin of how illegitimate your attempted threat is agent, and instead let's skip the foolish reintroductions to your reformed nature. I would prefer to not be subjected to yet another idle warning on the part of my captives."

"What did you do to him!?"

"Admirable." Circling what was left of the sniper, cautious yet, wholly dominating eyes, took in each part in its turn, including the war of pulling muscles trying their best to come free, all though superfluously. "Even now, here under my finger tips," leather clad pads recorded each muscle that flinched under exacting firmness, starting at the injured wrist, traveling north toward the shoulder socket, joint yet out of place. "You continue to contest my will. Have no fear agent, no physical harm will come to captain Redfield. Though I can not account, for what lies ahead for you." Gripping the joint out of place, Wesker kneaded the flesh, feeling the bones under their pressure, the stifled attempt at bravery in the face of pain while pressuring further, adoring the noise the grinding bones made over the musical tones of a grimace. "Tell me _agent_," Albert spat the title through narrow lips, "did you ever inform your captain of your _sinful_ deeds?" It was similar to a cat circling the pitiful field mouse. It could run and hide, but claws would inevitably be shown and with enough toying with its food, it would devour the tiny morsel. He fought so valiantly to maintain composure though, no doubt his captain would have been so proud of his little protege, if he could see passed the growing confusion and suspicion and see this for what it was. A master reclaiming his pet. "Does he know? About your secrets? About your...," the hand moved on, holding onto the words whilst staring down that straight nose watching Piers still under his exacting grip that moved provocatively up his shoulder to that slender muscled neck and forever smooth jawline, cupping his face. "_Wicked_ transgressions."

One could almost feel the rage boiling in the pits of Chris' misled gut, hear his bellowed howls as Wesker brushed his leather sheathed digits over those pouted lips that Krauser adored so. It wasn't hard to see why. If he hadn't been playing a game with this boy it would have been easy to give himself over to the want to hear him scream. But that would come. For now, a thumb delicately stroked cracked and worried full tiers, feeling the clench of jaw, and yearn to pull free, but in the grips of a constrictor it was inevitably impossible to jerk that lovely, battered visage to the side. He adored that Redfield was watching this, seeing him take what he refused and turn him into something tainted. He hoped to all the fates that those innuendos went lost on Chris, and the man took him at his words rather than their metaphorical meaning. The captain was dimmer that way, always lost on him the true meaning for things. No..., it was no secret why Krauser and now Chris lavished affection on this boy. He had fire. Fire hidden behind his eyes as they bore into Wesker's without fear as he squeezed that jaw ever tighter. A reminder things could be much worse for him if he chose to fight this. "Does he know what a whore you are? You sold yourself to the highest bidder agent. I want what belongs to me."

"I don't belong to you Wesker. I never did."

"And that's where you are wrong my stray pet. You belonged to me since the day you were born. From the beginning of time when you first pulled the trigger of your favorite gun and," squeezing his face and leaning closer until Wesker loomed over his face, forcibly holding still hat body beneath him, "murdered... in my name. Admit who you are agent Nivans. A murderer for hire and I am the one who took you in. Trained you. Took the potential of a little boy, and turned him into a killer. You are mine." Their lips were practically touching, the heat of warm breath versus oddly chilled as those pouted lips brushed against his own. It wasn't a kiss, Wesker wouldn't kiss him even if it served the purpose to kill his rival's spirit, but those warm soft lips were the closest he would come with his own thin lips, releasing him with a jerk; snapping back to posture and strutting the room. "Did you tell him?"

"Fuck you!" Tenor words became cracked from the hours of hoarse screaming and combating Krauser's ruthlessness. "You know I haven't. You know I couldn't! How was I suppose to tell him that his partner use to work for a monster huh? You lied to me Wesker, you-

"I simply told you what you wanted to hear."

"You played me like a cheap hand and I killed those people. I see their names while I'm sleeping, if I ever can fucking sleep. How their faces all become a blur. You think I'm proud of that?! That I would tell him that while he was saving lives from bioterrorism, I was taking them? You knew I wouldn't approve of this, of any of it, so you fed me that line of bullshit about saving the world and-

"And you took it. I don't recall you ever fighting me on the matter agent Nivans. In fact I don't recall you ever once indicating remorse for your precarious deeds." Piers was following Wesker with his eyes, muscles tensed and pulled up off the silver table while circled by the shark in bloodied water. "You are, who you are, and those who seek to change their nature can either rise above humanity, or fall down with it."

* * *

Twisting barbs of wire gashed into bulging strong forearms, viral words creating a sickness within the man constrained and force to liten to hollow words and gestures that tarnished Chris' world. Damn Wesker, damn him to the deepest darkest pits of Hell and consume him in the fiery inferno for eternity. how could this have happened? How could his world be so inside out and maimed by a single man. An icon of evil that circled his partner much as predator looking for the softest meat to sink his teeth. How dare that man? After all the years together, the service with S.T.A.R.S., only to become this creation of evil who tainted all things good. Piers was good. He'd seen it. He'd watched the conviction that he battled with and the sleepless nights. Christopher Redfield was no fool. Behavior like his only came from one searching to cleanse their soul, looking for redemption. Only he hadn't known..., he'd never imagined that the viper's venom had sunk so deep into his life that he'd taken yet another thing from him. Wesker took everything from Chris. He was the reason for his prolonged existence, the reason to keep fighting. Because a man that truly revolting, couldn't be allowed to roam free and infect the whole of humanity with his sick delusions. If Wesker imagined that Chris would give up his partner, turn him over to live through hell with Albert as his tormentor, he needed to drastically remind him with a huge meat hooked, bloodied fist: that Chris Redfield doesn't back down.

Piers Nivans was a good person. It didn't take a genius to see it. When he'd arrived at B.S.A.A. Headquarters, directly applying after a two year span between his last two applications; that solemn sadness on his face. People did not bring themselves in desperation, to the place that meant salvation to them, without baggage. It took a single look into those hazel, hopeless eyes to know damn well that he was damaged. Hard to imagine, a kid of twenty years, being broken. But if the world threw away all its broken pieces, it would never be able to piece itself together again. So he rebuilt Piers. He gave him the shot he wanted and kept him close. With a person like Piers tha would only be fitting. You don't seek to help bring a person back from Hell, without standing by their side. He knew, it had happened to him enough times to count, so it was clear what needed to be done. He couldn't have helped that in a matter of months, after seeing the person that was under all that tough bruised exterior, that he started to feel more than lust for his partner. The sniper was handsome, there was no denying it, and his bullets were the envy of the team, but those quirks of his that made him so sought after were also a guard that kept him well hidden. He saw it though, the goodness inside him. He kept it to himself and held it close, and enjoyed it for almost two years knowing that his partner, the one who spent every moment lavishing all attention on him, was his. They'd claimed each other. Chris had claimed Piers as his own. They never touched one another, apart from poisonous fingertips that flooded his every sense when they brushed his shoulder. It didn't need to be physical. Sure as hell he wanted it to be, and there were moments when he needed it to be, but they kept it hidden and pushed away. Piers was his damaged, taped together, perfect partner.

This was torture. His arms were seeping blood with no indication of freeing from his bonds, hearing those violent accusations on his partner's part. So he'd been a sniper and they recruited him. Stupid boy. He was still his partner, but stupid. Wesker had all that charm and charisma seeping from his pores it was only a matter of time before someone fell for it. He had. Wesker was his S.T.A.R.S. captain and he hadn't even seen it coming. This man made a living tormenting souls like his, and he was watching the pieces of scotch and duct tape tore off piece by piece the longer conversation revolved around his 'murders.' "Damn it Piers... don't let him break you."

The static screens fuzzed around the darkness of the room, showing him as a leather glove plucked fingertip at a time until completely baring snake pale skin of those violent digits. His hand was wandering that lithe body, stripped by his henchmen except for the last shreds of fatigues. They were speaking, about the terms of his agreement, things that Chris couldn't care about while restrained anger on Wesker's part threatened each limb, piece by piece.

* * *

"You are one of a kind my dear little pet."

"I'm not yours Wesker, and I'm tired of this game. Where is my captain?"

_Patience... Chris must be enjoying this little show his boy puts on for him. So possessive. This will be a pleasure, ruining him._Grip on restrained wrist crushed the remaining bones that had remained untainted by Krauser's charm, the sound ugly but covered by the instant howl of pain they incited. Those wretched, torn lips, split in part by the knife earlier shoved between them and instead shut up the cry with an unexpected seal over those coveted lips. In most efforts someone would have to force, for Albert Wesker, all i took was the threat of force to stow his enemies, in this case, to still his victim. They were soft though, those full tiers ever so slowly forced to admit that snaking tongue that dipped inside his mouth. If he wanted the vice on his wrist stayed, he would do nothing while Wesker smirked proudly, parting their maws to admire that stone cold terrified face beneath him. Eyes clenched shut, lips partly open and glistening with the saliva left between them, that slight tremble that Wesker loved so much. Yes, this boy knew exactly what the game was now. It wasn't. There was no game here. It was a lost battle and the only thing at stake was just how much pain there was to be had. "You... are... mine. Give in to me boy, and I will release _him_."

Misery etched on fine olive features, destroyed and broken down, the last shred of dignity peeled away from the outer shell, exposing the hidden person that Piers protected with his life. Chris watched it crumble. Closed eyes and even tempered breaths filled damaged lungs and slow acceptance worked over that pained countenance, tightened brows as hazel opened, greeted with only the lens coverings over those venomous eyes. Glassy salt coated those hawk sharp eyes, searching the man over him before tipping up that jaw. Lips meant willingly and it was the last time they would. Wesker didn't kiss people, no matter how deliciously full those tiers were, giving themselves over to him. It would be a pleasure taking this prize from Christopher. Ending the kiss, Wesker used that single uncovered hand to push aside the pretty profile. Straps were undone without struggle, the last remains of clothing on olive skin, fabrics pushed away to uncover the last shreds of decency. It was a wordless action, sliding that body off the table, back held against Teflon and leather cold before slammed face first, bent at the waist over the edge, hearing the slick and creak of hard textiles and against the thighs. Lean pretty body in a mangle of itself motionless as pale Adonis form pushed to the last defenses of sanity. Looking to the place he knew his own security camera rested, a single unbarred hand raised, and revealed orange eyes to his rival, shark like grin in place as he pushed inside that tight hole and filled Chris' ears with Piers' stifled cry.

Blood coated every part of that soldier plastered to the stainless steel, to the walls, to the concrete floor, to the chair that once had contained the sniper strapped in it's clutches. Everywhere. Everywhere but Wesker. He was immaculate. Piers was just another part of the filth to him and Chris had to watch while a man superior to him took that which he strove to protect and ripped him away and stained him. It was the picture of control. If one could consent to rape, this was it. Body being plundered, tight orifice penetrated; torn open by that smooth, flawless skin of his attacker who's face reflected none of how he felt. The sniper's did however. Every thrust, decomposing until Wesker had what he wanted...

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**Part Two of this little scene... to be continued!**


	12. Chapter 12

Cold-blooded, violent thrusts impaled the lean olive body in restrictive hands, one clad in leather, the other naked and pinning the small of his back to steel, discomfort plainly visible on the tortured visage. Neither spoke. Just smothered grunts of pain, perfect brows knit. The entirety of his visage had been bloodied over the last few hours, but during this act alone did he keep his face devoid of emotion. Handing his soul to the owner of the damned, he'd resigned himself to the fate he felt. Controlling his breathing like long taught by his mentors in the army, even while Wesker extinguished his own pleasured grunts whilst burying himself deeper with every thrust. The leader of Umbrella could see it too. Finely tuned features, smooth and battered trying to steel themselves to the feeling as his body was jerked to and fro with each jerk. Passionate little thing. So well trained to fight the emotions, despite that he could see what eked from the corners of clenched hazel oculars. Salty, drops. Such a fine prize. That strong, broken man beneath steel, in a sheen of his own fluids was being smeared through them; blood and tears with each thrust. And with every thrust the grimace on his features came easier, pressure on the dislocated joint, while Wesker teased him silently to feel the pleasure of what was being done to him. He was drowned in physical suffering. It was only a matter of time before the pressure filling inside of him with every pleasured buck of smooth measured movements took their toll, and the tears that slid down Piers' pretty features, stained his face when his body reacted to the advances made on him. Every delved, piercing fuck into that tight heat was made to slowly undo him.

The blond aristocrat had long since learned control over his body. This was not just claiming his prize, it was advertising his clear superiority to his long time rival. Domination in its purest form. And he would know, it was all to save Chris from an invisible threat on his life. Piers had given over his figure to the devil in hopes that it would stay his hands against the captain of the B.S.A.A. They all knew, it would change nothing, but anything he could do, Piers would to keep that fleck of hope that it would stay Wesker's fury on Chris. Still, it couldn't keep him from gagging over the more demanding thrusts that pushed inside his contracting body, stature over him, looking down on his victim like filth as his body gave over to sin and choose pleasure over pain. It would tear him apart mentally, knowing he let himself enjoy this ruthless fuck instead of fighting it the entire way, because he knew if he fought, what consequences lie ahead of the man he'd hoped to spare. Wesker was destroying him with every push and pull, burying himself to the root inside Piers. He would make him enjoy this, and ruin them both.

Shallow thrusts deep inside that warm, tortured hole, muscles contracting around him with ever friction as the head of Wesker's cock brushed and demanded attention from the sweet bundle of nerves hidden inside the sniper. He could hear choked gasps turn to strangled moans, , knew well and certain the was his body tightened about his own length how hard it was to struggle against the wanton pleasure. "Let him hear you boy. You're mine now. Let your captain hear you fighting your own body as it gives in." It was to, the battle of will as hips rocked with the other, bruising grip on his body relenting as sweat sheen over them both, accumulated at the temples of Wesker's golden hairline, a drop trailing his jawline while keeping the pace that was soon being greeted with slim hips in his hands. Gasping in both agony and depraved pleasure; Piers cried out, full bowed tiers parting as the erection filling him throbbed and jammed against the sensitive recesses inside that heated cavity. Clear salty tears bit the corners of his eyes, leaking over the side of his face that was shoved unceremoniously against the steel table. Piers' smooth jaw was clenched tight, even as he fought to silence himself against the forced enjoyment. "Feels good doesn't it boy?" Wesker's sharky smile parted, revealed white enamel, chuckling darkly while he pillaged the younger man. Pace increased, posture perfect eve as the Adonis like greek god took all he wanted. His own persona faltered at the struggled composure, but he maintained, hips locking against the other as blood coated his own veined length that pulsed with the simple need to complete the act. Chris' humiliation would be all he more enjoyable, watching the sniper become everything he'd fought against.

A crushing grip on the throat that naturally was hidden behind the scarf that not lay torn to shreds on the ground, Wesker choked a silent scream from the boy, as he set a ruthless pace, fucking that enjoyably tight body until he could feel his own pleasure mounting, semen joining the blood deep inside that battered cavity. The croaked moan escaped from Piers' lungs, but Wesker wouldn't stand to listen for it, pulling out of that slick used body as Piers' lay crumpled upon its steel. "Such a good boy agent." The sound of belt and fabric pulled and leather creaking back of tough pads relay in the back of senses that were martyred. Boot heels moved across the room, Hazel peering out between full lashes, skin darkened around the one and swollen from a blow of earlier, haggardly watching the retreating leather back.

"Wait... Wes-

"Krauser... he's yours."

Chris bellowed loud enough his howls of fury could be heard outside the hall, Wesker chuckling as he shook his head and strode the distance to rejoin his enemy. The harrowing cries, from Chris turned to snarls of vicious hatred. Bloodied arms shredded further as his fettering clung into his body with deep barbs. "Wesker you son of a bitch! I'm going to-

"Come now Chris... no need for the dramatics. I gave him what he wanted. And for you, proof. There is nothing out of my reach Christopher. No one that you can take from my clutches. Its time you were taught that lesson in its entirety. Even you are not out of my reach Christopher." The captain of the B.S.A.A. growled unintelligibly for a time, incurring laughter that filled the room, accented only by the sounds of Krauser's bass rasps haunting Piers on the monitors behind him. _'About time I had a piece of you boy. Playing cat and mouse all this time, and you thought all along it was you... HA! Well... let me show you boy... My knife has wanted this for a long time...'_ The sounds of a tenor scream filled the room, emphasized only by boot steps and Chris' struggles, blood dripping over his meaty knuckles, and to the growing pool beneath. "I warned your Christopher, that you would never forgive him for his betrayals. I never claimed it would be those previously acted upon. Your little murderer will be too tainted for your fool hearty touch by the time he's turned back on his promises. Can you forgive him for handing himself over to me, to that? Simply to save you?" Chris' grit teeth would have shattered into pieces had Wesker not continued his speech, cutting off the lewd noises of the man on the monitors, the only noise audible the ripping of flesh. "When Kraser is finished... I'll simply continue to let it happen, until every man has had his fill, and all because he wants to save... _you_."

"Wesker I swear to God!-

"Save it Christopher. I heard the same speech from that soldier boy of yours before I had him beaten to submission. They all turn, even you will turn. Just to save him from himself and that... staunch will of his. The one you cherish so much." English accented vocals mingled with screams that turned to a gurgle of blood, and it took no expert to know what it was Krauser had finally claimed as his own. "Jack always had an... affinity for those pouted lips."

"WESKER!"

"Really Chris, overly dramatic as always. Its only his mouth." A smooth chuckle ripped through the air, one that curtled the remains within the bowels of a man and turned it out on his shoes. Leather and Teflon swept before the monitors that haunted Chris, refusing to relent in him the imagery though the sounds tormented more than the picture of his first class sniper turned into a whore for Wesker's minions in safety for his own life. Disgust ripened in Chris' mind, hooks of fists taking a tight gripped fist around the wire that gnawed his arms, until damage was shoved from the mind and massive rocky shoulders clenched and pulled the tension of the chair he had been restrained within. It cried and bowed under the muscled strength, body trembling beneath its own abilities as Wesker raised a perfect unamused brow seeing the chair give up in the contest of wills and was hurtled against the screens. The fair haired aristocrat had been there before, but his speed was unrecorded to be no less than the speed faster than projectile bullets, the pose he was found was no less than annoyance on his posture of fortitude, mocking a stare at the bare captain. "About time Christopher. I had wondered when all your strength would come to your aid. As though it could ever save either of you from the fate you've built for yourselves."

"No more running boy." Krauser groaned, pushing himself deeper passed bruised lips, choking a well known sniper on the piece he spent teasing for two years. He never did give the man a finish he wanted, and after leaving them it was a poor ending to a long lived fantasy. Wesker did reward though, those who were loyal to him to the end, and he knew first and foremost what it was that Jack had wanted to do. Particularly when he'd delved the knife into his mouth and split his tongue down the middle with its sharp hone edge. Of course the leader got his prize but Krauser wasn't picky, he didn't care about the seconds left over because what he wanted to to choke Piers on his own blood and vomit. A raspy groan drowned out the miserable sound of gagging from the throat of that youthful visage. "That's a good boy. Take it all in. Every fucking inch." Reddened veined length disappeared passed pretty lips, plunging in over and over with a hand on the back of Piers' head, massaging it between vicious thrusts. "Heh, stupid boyscout. Thought you'd get away with all that shit. Damn right you'll finish what you started." Blood had filled the space around Krauser's cock, blood and after being jammed down upon that heaping arousal. Holding him down on it long enough, he could see Piers' cheeks flush, and the lack of oxygen from forcibly deep-throating him creating the tight swallowing, gagging for air until vomit was forced up his throat. "Hahahaaha! Swallow boy." The mixture worked from the corners of lips around him, drawing a line down his chin. The swallowing motion around his cock made Krauser growl low.

Fucking his face all the more forcefully, Krauser let a loose groan escape his own mouth around the cigarette that dangled between his thinner lips with every sucked in swallow, trying to reprieve oxygen to the victim on his knees. Every tightening motion of his throat made breathes hitch in his barrel chest, blowing smoke down on the sniper until he plastered his palm upon the backside of his head, holding him there as he emptied every prolonged, much awaited salty drop. Everything was forced down Piers' throat. Released only to arch off the length that sllipped from his mouth, sucking in gasps of oxygen into tortured lungs and throwing up on the concrete beneath his finger tips. "Fuck boy, love those goddamn fuckable lips. Aww what' wrong boyscout, can't take it? What did you think, Wesker was just going to let that captain of yours go just because you submit? Now that he's done with you boy, that fancy pants captain of yours is next. Heh. Bet he'll bitch more than you did! Chokin' on his own vomit and blood when Wesker jams his fist passed though perfect teeth and into the back of his fuckin' throat!"

Piers shook on the ground, hazel eyes swollen from the redness that clung within them and the tissue around them purpled and beaten from Krauser's great fists earlier. He had already taken the physical beating but now the emotional berating came, boots to the sides and stomach, impaling his ribs and guts on combat boots. "He's going to beat your captain to a bloody pulp boy. Just like I'm doing to you. And once he's watched you defile yourself he's going to kill him." The heavy dark grey boots continued to stomp and kick, reeling back with shuttering force before the calf in Krauser's leg would tremble and come hurtling forward, embedding into ribs with a resounding crack, separating the fourth and fifth from their cage within skin walls. The blow was deafened by Piers' scream, though even as it happened the tenor voice was undercut by a bellowing bass. The noise of Krauser's ankle snapping with force exerted when Piers' hands clasped over it, giving a sharp twist to the braced foot and sudden bone was visibly jutting out from pale skin, the joint in ruin. "You son of a bitch!" Hand clutching the remains of the injury, gave a forceful yank, separating the injury from its location and twisting it out of place, doing further damage until the attacker came down with it, crashing to the concrete. Piers' felt his broken fingers reject the fight, and it had surprised anyone he'd had the force to use them, but under duress the soldier had wedged the joint in his good hand, using the force in his forearm to brace his weight in order to completely mangle the appendage. Injured fingers wouldn't have consented to such an act, however they did clasp, boggled albeit, around the hilt of the combat knife buried there, wedging it free as they rolled away from one another. "I'm going to take a lot of pleasure in killing you boyscout!"

Rolling with the punches, the sniper turned in on the weapon, bracing one knee beneath him and the other foot pressing back and against the ground for leverage when they lunged at one another. Silence was the only answer to Krauser's threat, but it was soon clear the threat against Chris had been the only one that mattered. They could do whatever the hell they wanted to Piers, or his body. But taking away his captain, and murdering him in cold blood because of what? His own faithless transgression over being part of this organization. He wouldn't allow it. There was no diligence left in his right hand as they grappled, struggling to retain a hold on the weapon in his hand, faced outward as they collided. He didn't need diligence however, just one well landed blow that would silence the blond nazi for good and his antics. They rolled with the blows, one body fit and healthy, they other driven by passion and hatred. It was amazing what malice could accomplish. Hands countering one another until Krauser mounted the top, fists pummeling down on him in places that left only numbness, seeking to steal the skewer from Piers' pathetic grasp. As one knee reeled into the back of Krauser's spine, forcing him forward, the ruin left of his trigger hand drove the knife up, impaling Krauser on it, meaty hands grasping the blade to prevent it from driving full throttle into his bowels. Blood gushed from his digits as a second knee can up and drove him deeper still, rolling with the momentum until they switched positions, leaning his weight on the blade.

Blood spattered and joined the assorted fluids that littered Piers' visage, spew from grit teeth and coughing that rasped in billowy lungs, deflating by the second. Mangled and defaced, even then Piers pushed deeper until he could feel every breath shortened, grabbing the cigarette that fell from between blue tinted worms left on the commando's face, turning the cherry that still burned and buried it's ashy end in half closed blue eyes. When no noise was uttered the sniper finally relinquished, falling backward and grasping at his fingers as they screamed at him. He could take no time on the ground, but he knew that esker had witnessed what had happened. That after Krauser's proud declaration Chris was being forced to watch, and both men would know as he leaned forward in a sea of blood, flayed limbs, and swollen discoloration; wrenched loose the combat knife and took in short stunted breaths.

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**NO ONE! Threatens Chris Redfield and gets away with it! Sorry its been so long, finally catching up with all these. : ) Hope you enjoyed!**


	13. Chapter 13

Chris heard the fight, so did Wesker. They'd been throwing declarations of superiority at one another for almost too long when the threat Krauser threw at Piers, yielded the noise of breaking bone. The captain had cringed, shuttered and hid form it in fear as he listened to the battle, but could see nothing of it through Wesker standing before him like a door. Vermilion, cat-like eyes, narrowed and burrowed deep in the pits of almost blackened mahogany orbs. A stare down. The bellow that had been Krauser's alerted Chris to the retaliation on Piers' part, and it made hope bubble up inside him to hear him fight back, even if he couldn't see the fight. He could hear the extinguish of breath. Wesker couldn't see the fight either, he was facing the captain, watching his features contort, and reading them like a book in hopes to reveal something of how he felt; to see how it was that Chris had taken to hearing his partner's war. That kid was torn to Hell, broken hand, fingers, mangled joints, torn up, raped, ribs cracked, broken, bruised. Lord knew what else they'd done to him, and Piers had the gull to bury a knife in someone. He knew the sound of a knife ripping through flesh. He'd heard it not long again, accompanied by his sniper's screams. Whatever injury that had caused was a knife in flesh as well, but this time it wasn't Piers' ragged and hitched breathing that was extinguished. It was that raspy chortle of that demon cohort. Victory flashed in Chris' features in a way that made Wesker's shark like features, so angled and sharp, turn to stone. "Tell me Christopher..., you think he's coming for you? You think, that he'll make it here? In _one_ piece? He's already lost the battle, and here you sit, ever proud of yourself, of your..., _teaaamm_. As though resilience will get you anything but death. I have allowed your prolonged _existence_ out of a sense of..., wonder. More over, the hopes that there would still be at least a challenge for me. You have always _failed me. _You sit here now, looking like a fool. You're both dead Chris. I've allowed this for _far_ too long." With nothing to go on but sound, but the noise of dragged limbs, and stumbling indicators of movement from behind the tall blond, set on tormenting him, Chris could only assume that Piers was still trapped in that room. He was wrong though, not that it would matter, as Wesker came closer to him, creaking leather, coiling into a wrecking ball that came colliding with his cheekbone, rendering his thoughts unconscious.

Amber eyes narrowing on their intended victim, Wesker finally took the moment to turn, looking at the ruin of the room left behind. Strong willed little brat. At least, he had always imagined so. He didn't pick just anyone to join Umbrella. Piers had always shown an amazing willpower to do the 'right thing' and in times like this it was clear just what it was the younger soldier imagined that was. He wasn't concerned with himself. He never had been. Always the optimist, concerned with saving the world, and no himself. The same was true here. He'd been mangled in that room, for days on end. Tortured to the extent that other men would have been rendered simply doomed. Yet, here was Piers, downing Krauser. A commando, one of his best agents, and someone he had never anticipated would fail him, over what... some child with a vendetta against evil? If only he'd been able to manipulate the sniper the way he had the others. If only that sense of honor he carried, and the bravado, and conviction could have been tethered to Albert Wesker, then this never would have happened. A proud young man, that was certain. Piers Nivans would have been an excellent soldier in his army, and instead, threw in his ilk with Bioterrorism's own, Chris Redfield. So be it. Wesker would let him have what he wanted so badly...

Determined, blood drenched, mangled fingertips, ineptly hung to the side of the sniper's body, eighty-sixed for their uselessness. Numbness had worn off, replaced regrettably for deadening throbbing sting that worked through each broken digit. The tiny creeks of blood that ran in rivulets down Piers' forearm, up from his shoulder like twining, twisted snakes, each one burning the tingling flesh that they dripped over. The pain of flayed fingers tips and his palm made the fringes of rational thinking tear apart. Krauser's body lay on the ground, unmoving, staring up at Piers with it's one blue eye, the other burned by the ash of cigarette's cherry red, put on in it's iris. Yeah, he'd killed the man he'd wanted dead for a rather fucking long time, but at the moment, it wasn't much of a gratification. Chris' life was in danger, and there a hole in his thigh from the last stabbing he'd received from Krauser to keep him from fighting. Or more over, for the fun of watching him bleed out. It was serving now, to make lightheadedness mingle with the sting and agony of throbbing wounds over all his body. Everything hurt. Now however, was not the time to let blood loss take its toll, he had a goal to accomplish, and before he could do that, getting out of this torture chamber was the first priority. With only one functional hand left, and only one functional leg, that left this to be done with simply will power. A good thing Piers was made of the stuff. There was a reason though. Easy to maintain will, when the goal wasn't survival..., not your own anyway. Expending all your strength was going to happen one way or another, as long as you expected it, you wouldn't be completely surprised when you found yourself unable to move on. Dragging his left leg behind him, and pulling along with his forearm, Piers' twisted his lean body, stealing a look at the remains of his clothing, all discarded, and then to the commando's dead corpse. There was no time for contemplation, so with ease, stole away what he needed. Boots, fatigues, and rigs. The knife jammed into the rigs. Pools of crimson were already soaking the cloth around his leg, from the puncture, but the rigging he yanked and jerked, cut off circulation, and another around his shoulder, bits of rig in his teeth while he pulled it tight with his good hand, feeling the strands bitting into his flesh and wound, groaning at the agony.

Wesker was watching. He was always watching. But Piers wasn't afraid of being watched. He was banking on it, it was the only way he'd even find Chris, was by Wesker giving away his location. Bracing his good hand on the ground, the sniper pulled himself to his feet, gimping toward the metal door, leaning his weight on the door. Resting smooth cheeks on the cool steel of the door, heaving in several breathes passed battered, bruised lips, and into his tortured lungs. A quick reminder of all the broken ribs, and the puncture in his lung, was killing him to feel, but then, if you didn't expect to live though, it was bearable. Clutching the grip that cranked under pressure, Piers shoved the steel door aside, with what remained of his leverage, stumbling through, fumbling as he lost all footing and fell against the opposing wall, crying out at the impact of his dislocated shoulder slamming into the wall, and smearing a trail of copper all along the wall. "Jesus..." Chewing his upper tier, staggering breaths hitched in Piers' throat, groaning at the effort of getting upright again, and along the wall. Moving along it, seemed like miles. Every step was demanding and frayed his senses. Every door had to be examined, listened to, and every door yielded nothing. That was until the one ahead snapped open, blinding light broken by steel gray slamming open, a hand deafeningly fast around his throat. Yanked from his feet; only able to peer through one good eye, the other swollen shut from the pummeling. But the face and force was already marked.

"I _had_ hoped you wouldn't bleed out until you reached your _precious_ captain... Come agent." Wesker's voice was sharp, a hiss, as he lugged himself off the wall, choking blood into Piers' mouth. forming from the already made injuries that made a gargled hiss for breath. "So pathetic. After all these years, and you still manage to be a thorn in my side." Thrown to the ground within a room of monitors, all the sniper felt was the crack of his knee cap from the weight of his body without bracing it. His yelp of pain pulled Chris awake form his forced unconsciousness, the baritone groan, hitting Piers' senses from this place within the room. He couldn't stabilize his sight for hell, but he knew the voice. "Well then agent, I want to hear you beg." The cock of the infamous magnum sported by the blond tormentor was leveled at Chris' head, jerking serious deadpan in the air. The aristocratic surety, the definition of cocky, while Piers was on his broken busted up leg looking up at his captain. The one he'd fought for for years, and struggled to get to for so long. Wesker wasn't sentimental, and Piers wasn't stupid. He wasn't making it out, but Chris? Chris had to.

Fingers wound up in the fabric of Chris' fatigues, a saddened, broke smile on that once perfect visage. "I don't regret it, captain..." Chris was already babbling not to give up on this, screaming at Wesker, some dull thrum in his head that sounded like a bomb had gone off in his ear. Probably adrenaline that was working his good hand round the knife he'd claimed from Krauser. "I'm not sorry." Not sorry for anything. Even if it meant this moment had to come. He wasn't sorry that being with Wesker led him to Chris, or that his years with the B.S.A.A. were thanks to the taint his soul suffered. That didn't make it easier saying this, or the chortle on Wesker's part when he heard Chris' shouting that they were both going to be fine. They weren't, but Chris would be. Blood ran in a line down his mouth, and with a finite grip on the hilt of the dagger in his hand, Piers let his eyes lull shut for the briefest seconds. "Forgive me." Jerk of muscles, the slice of robe and the gun shot. It wasn't Chris who was silenced with the gun shot. Just his voice screaming hoarse as his legs were freed from cord, and Piers' hand splayed on his leg, limp as his body fell to the ground.

"PIERS!"

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**People don't hate me for that end! Cliff hanger for Chris Redfield!**


End file.
